


The Last Temptation of Crowley

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-19
Updated: 2004-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What to do with the first day of the rest of your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Temptation of Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> The five stories comprising this series are the first GO pieces I ever wrote.
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ from October through December 2004.)

Cocoa was a vile thing, Crowley decided, unless you had an angel to make it for you.  So far, the Second Day of the Rest of the World wasn't going very well: he'd slept badly, for starters.  Crowley made a face and poured the burned glop down the drain.  He snarled at his wayward ficus on the way out, and if he'd hung back a moment longer, he might've seen the tree tremble.  It might even have cheered him up.

As if all of that weren't bad enough, Aziraphale took forever to answer the door.

"Really, _must_ you wake the neighbors?" asked the angel, cautiously peering outside.  His teacup sent misty tendrils drifting up in front of his blue eyes, and Crowley thought the effect profoundly disturbing.

"Just let me in," he hissed.

Aziraphale did as he was told, stepping out of the way as Crowley stormed inside.  He blinked a few times, completely ignoring the cup in his hand.

"What are you staring at?" Crowley asked gloomily.  "Have you finally realized what you've been letting in by the front door for all this time?"

"No," Aziraphale said, still staring. "It's that you're, er, not wearing sunglasses."

Crowley ran a hand across his forehead, and then swore. Aziraphale cringed. Maybe that explained why the shifty bloke in front of him had driven off the road and hit a telephone pole.  He was sure he hadn't done it on purpose, none of the usual rearview-mirror tricks, though those were certainly some of his favorites.  Irritably, Crowley snapped his fingers, and things suddenly looked a lot more normal.

"Is that better?"

"No sense wearing them inside," Aziraphale said, and took a sip of tea.  "I assume there's a point to this visit, so we might as well get on with it."

Crowley muttered to himself and followed the angel, but he left on his glasses.

There was much less space in the back room than Crowley remembered.  He spent a good ten minutes staring at the unfamiliar volumes behind the glass doors of Aziraphale's carefully kept cabinets, wondering if the angel would actually break with habit and sell the blasted things.  There were bunches of full boxes shoved up against the wall, which was odd and disquieting, especially since he wouldn't be able to tip his chair as far back as he liked on account. 

Aziraphale shuffled back in with two cups in hand, looking confused again.

"Crowley, please," he said.  "You're making me nervous.  Sit down."

Crowley couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't get Aziraphale's feathers in a twist—strange, that he didn't feel like doing even _that_ —so he settled for taking the angel's usual seat and sliding as far back as he could until he collided gracelessly with cardboard.  Bloody paperback overstock, real gem of a joke.

Aziraphale set a cup down in front of him, and then sat down in the other chair.

For a moment, Crowley couldn't think of anything but the smell of properly made cocoa, and he'd downed half of it before he realized it also contained peppermint schnapps.  He set the cup down, blinking in surprise.

"Thank you."

"Out of sorts _and_ polite," Aziraphale said, taking another quiet sip of his tea.  "You'd think the world was ending."

"Oh, shut up," Crowley said to his cocoa.  "I'm not out of sorts.  I'm…"  He waved his hand in the air, searching for what he was.  "Hungry.  Have you eaten?"

"I made scones this morning, in fact. Would you care for any?"  Aziraphale waved his hand at the plate abruptly and conveniently sitting between them on the table.

Crowley wrinkled his nose, recalling last time, which had involved raisins and had not been at all pleasant.  "Only if they're—"

"Blueberry, for heaven's sake," Aziraphale sniffed, and polished off his tea.

They ate in silence.  Several scones later, it occurred to Crowley that he was in trouble, because the visit didn't _actually_ have a point—none other than that he'd ruined his cocoa and meant to ask for some, except he hadn't had to ask.  Aziraphale was looking at Crowley as if he'd forgot more than his glasses, which made him squirm.

"Did you have something else in mind?" Aziraphale asked.

"Er," Crowley said, lifting some crumbs up from the tabletop by crushing them with his fingertip, "sort of.  I thought we might…"  _Go for sushi to celebrate the return of the whales_ sounded remarkably stupid even by his standards, and besides, he was neither drunk enough to say it, nor even drunk period.  "Lunch," he said finally, brushing his hands off over the plate.  "I thought we might do lunch."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.  "My dear, it's not yet noon."

Now, lately, when Aziraphale said that, it did funny things to Crowley, such as make him want to use words that no respectable demon should want to use.  It didn't even occur to him to realize that Aziraphale hadn't pointed out that they had just done lunch the day before, as the angel was usually wont to do.  At least not for a few seconds, at which point Crowley decided to panic, which entailed standing up, which entailed slamming into the box of who-knew-what-overly-expensive-children's-book.

"Fine, then, there's time to kill," he said brightly, pacing into the kitchenette empty-handed before returning to fetch the cups and pacing back.  "Do you have any wine?"

"Actually," Aziraphale said, following Crowley into the kitchen, which he was most certainly not supposed to do, "I have plans."

Crowley dropped the cups into the sink and squeaked, "What?"

Aziraphale looked away quickly, like he was about to apologize.  "I thought I might take a stroll to Lower Tadfield and—"

"Stroll?  That'd take you all day," Crowley said, turning fast enough that he knocked into Aziraphale, who had the plate in hand, but not for very long.

"I don't walk as much as I ought," Aziraphale said, evasively, staring down at the shattered china.  "The weather's been fine, so—"

"I'll drive you," Crowley said, guiltily waving the mess away.

The ride was as quiet as breakfast, despite Crowley's best attempts at speeding and general belligerence.  There wasn't much traffic, which defeated the point, and Aziraphale was annoyingly composed.  The angel sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, calmly watching the passing scenery while the wind whipped his pale hair this way and that, a splintered, graying halo in the sunshine.

Crowley blared the Bentley's horn and cursed at a passing cyclist.

"Was that really necessary?" Aziraphale asked, and the touch of his hand on Crowley's shoulder was so unexpected that Crowley almost let go of the wheel.

"You can never be too careful these days," he said, lamely, flicking his eyes up to the rearview mirror.  Aziraphale was looking to the side again, hands re-folded in his lap.

"Ah," he said.

That did it.  Crowley couldn't take any more of this imperturbability; it just wasn't…wasn't _proper_.  He reached for the glove compartment.

Aziraphale caught his hand.  "What's got _into_ you?"

Crowley wrenched it free, and then gripped the wheel.  "You're being secretive!  What's so important out in Lower Middle-of-Nowhere, which, need I remind you, is all set straight now, that you can't be buggered to do lunch?"

"We did lunch yester—"

" _Tell me_."

"Business," Aziraphale said, and Crowley knew by the angel's tone that he'd lost.

"Nothing you'd like my interference in," Crowley supplied.  "Not that they aren't just brilliant that way all by themselves."

"It's follow-up," Aziraphale said, as if sounding tart took considerable effort.

Crowley took the turn without flipping his signal and stared at Aziraphale, horrified.

"You mean you've received Orders?"

Aziraphale blinked at him, something at which he was getting awfully good.  "No, my dear, I haven't," he said, and Crowley almost missed the rest of what was coming out of his mouth.  "Whatever gave you a strange idea like that?"

"I, er," Crowley said, focusing on the road.  "Nothing."

"I think you need a holiday," Aziraphale said, patting his shoulder sympathetically.  "I hear Greece is quite charming this time of year."

Crowley pulled over, screeching the Bentley to a halt.

"Get out of the car, angel."

*        *        *

Once he got back to London, Crowley decided that the only way to deal with kicking the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend out of his car was to get trollied.

Aziraphale did, indeed, have wine.  One of the lower cupboards in the back room was devoted entirely to bottles of Claret, Riesling, and about anything else that a discriminating individual could possibly wish to use for the purpose of drowning out guilt that one is not supposed to have.  Crowley selected two bottles of the best vintage of Wehlener-Sönnenuhr that he could find and went looking for a corkscrew.

Three hours later, he left sober.

*        *        *

The ansaphone clicked to life around five in the evening, and Crowley had the stereo system up so loud that he almost missed it.  Wagner, after all, took precedence.

He almost tripped over the ficus, which kept falling over, on his way to the office.

"Aziraphale, is that—"

"Yes," said the angel, sounding uncharacteristically tired.  "I, ah, noticed—"

"I left a cheque on the fridge," Crowley muttered.

"Er, yes."

The silence was deafening, except for _The Flight of the Valkyries_ in the background.  Crowley stopped the music with a thought.

Aziraphale swallowed, and then said, "I don't suppose you'd like dinner?"

Half an hour later, they occupied a corner table in an Indian establishment whose name Crowley could never remember even if he'd just looked at the sign two seconds ago.  Aziraphale ordered masala chai and shot Crowley a look that indicated the waiter had probably asked him a simple question for which Crowley had no answer.

"What?"

"Be a dear and bring him a mango lassi," Aziraphale said, and the waiter went away.  "You," he said to Crowley, "are impossible, and I haven't felt like telling you that since—well, never mind.  You're acting as if—have _you_ received a message?"

Crowley laughed sharply.  "No, thank G—no, I haven't.  None at all."

Aziraphale sighed and spread his napkin in his lap.  "All's well that ends well."  

"Would you stop reminding me?  We're supposed to forget."

"It's just…"  Aziraphale pinched up a bit of the tablecloth, trying not to smile.

"Yes?"

"They're so _happy_."

"Oh," Crowley said bitterly, "I see what you're on about.  Spying so you can gloat over your little triumph, _et cetera_ —"

" _Our_ triumph—"

"Masala chai, mango lassi.  Sir?"

Crowley glared over the drink and picked up his menu.  "After you."

Aziraphale ordered something that Crowley had been too lazy to try for a long time, so Crowley ordered the same thing.  The angel scowled and pulled the menu out of his hand, thrusting both placards back at the waiter.  It didn't suit him.

"You were saying?" Crowley prompted, hoping that he sounded sincere, because he actually was being sincere, and surely Aziraphale knew that took some doing.

Aziraphale shrugged, sipping his tea politely.  "They're utterly content.  That's all."

"You didn't spend hours out there watching _nothing_ ," Crowley accused.

"No, I didn't," agreed the angel, lifting his napkin to his lips, which was unexpectedly distracting.  "But I should hardly think you'd want to hear about it."

"Try me," Crowley said, finally picking up the lassi.

Aziraphale made another face—Crowley wished he'd stop, it wasn't _normal_ —and shrugged.  "I called on Jasmine Cottage."

Crowley slurped on his straw, frowning.  "And?"

Aziraphale blushed and picked up his tea.

"Really, Crowley. It would hardly be right if I told you."

Crowley stared at him, and then recovered himself and summoned a proper sneer.  "Yet there's nothing wrong with spying?  Angel, _tsk_ ," he sighed.  "You're slipping."

Aziraphale's cup wobbled as he set it down, spilling some tea on the white tablecloth.  "Honestly, one would think you didn't know what I _meant_ —"

"Demons, you know," Crowley said, sarcastically, making the universal, circular gesture signifying _completely and utterly mad_ at his temple. "Horribly slow."

Aziraphale threw his napkin at Crowley, which shocked the demon enough to drop the subject.  Unsurprisingly, they ate in silence, but at least the music was good.

*        *        *

Crowley woke up with a headache.

Grumbling, he slid out of bed and staggered over to the window.  Another disgustingly sunny day; Crowley wondered how many of them the kid thought he could take.  He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the street.  London had already been up for hours, blithely going about her business and leisure.  A young couple strolled by.

Crowley yanked the curtains shut and retreated to the bathroom.

Much like sleep, hot water was one of Crowley's superfluous pleasures.  His shower head had about six different settings, and it was definitely an _XTRA-HI_ kind of morning.  He turned his face into the spray and stood there until he couldn't feel the pain in his temples anymore.  They hadn't even gone back to Aziraphale's for a drink. By the time dinner ended, the angel had been in some kind of hurry to get back.  Blasted books.  Crowley had remained in the no-parking zone till after Aziraphale was inside. He sucked in a mouthful of water, spat, and played the scene over and over.

Crowley dried and dressed quickly, careful to remember his sunglasses.  He terrorized the plants for a while, but his heart wasn't in it, so they got a reprieve and a thorough watering.  If it wouldn't rain outside, then Crowley would do his best indoors.

At noon, he dialed Aziraphale's number.  No answer.

"Prat," he said, and hung up.  His chest hurt.

The best method for clearing one's head, as far as Crowley knew, was feeding the ducks in St. James' Park.  And if that failed, at least it was a jumping-off point for other pursuits.  What Crowley failed to take into account was that Aziraphale wasn't going with him, and the former usually depended upon the presence of the latter.

"Hallo," Aziraphale said from a distance, already standing in their favorite spot.

Crowley took a crumpled paper bag from his jacket, where it had spent the past fifteen minutes as an unattractive lump.  "We have to stop this," he said decisively, opening the bag.  "People will talk."

Aziraphale took the piece of bread that Crowley offered him. "Are you feeling all right?  Before you tell me that's a stupid question, I would like to point out that, in this case, blaming my wine is not an option, and you technically have no excuse."

Crowley ignored the him and tossed an entire piece of bread into the water.  Four ducks attacked it at once, a loud flurry of green and brown feathers.

"There's no reasoning with you, is there?"

"Did you go back?" Crowley asked, intently watching the ducks fight.

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale asked, tone migrating quickly from baffled to affronted.  "No, if you must know," he added, understanding, "I've been here all day."

Crowley glared at him.  " _Here_ here?"

"Of course not!  London here."

"What on earth were you—oh," he concluded. "And I suppose they're very happy."

"Actually, they had a spectacular row," Aziraphale said, reaching for the bag.

"Dare I ask why?"

"I asked kindly if I might treat Madame Tracy to lunch, and her young man threw a fit.  It's all been sorted out, though.  We had a lovely chat.  They're moving soon."

"I suppose you sold them a honeymoon in Greece," Crowley said acidly.

"Oh, no," said Aziraphale placidly, tossing a bit of balled-up bread to a neglected white duck.  "They have a charming little place in Cornwall lined up.  Madame Tracy said they'll be naming the cottage Shangri-La."

Crowley couldn't decide whether _doesn't sodding exist_ or _how bloody romantic_ was the more inappropriate response, so he mumbled something between the two and earned himself a funny—and, much to his satisfaction, troubled—look from the angel.

"Nothing says you can't have a look yourself," Aziraphale said, and took the bag to the trash.  The white duck waddled up and tugged on his trousers, complaining softly.

Crowley looked around and realized that they were, for once, utterly alone.

*        *        *

On Wednesday, Crowley didn't get up.

The phone rang twice, but he didn't answer.

He didn't get up on Thursday, either.

The phone rang once, but the ansaphone was silent.

He suspected the plants were having a field day.

*        *        *

Anathema, Crowley had to admit, was an attractive woman.  If you liked that sort of thing.  It was a good thing that Newton Pulsifer did, and even better that she liked him back.  Come to think of it, Crowley hadn't seen two people so in-like for ages.

The cottage was a shambles.  They had every window in the place open, so finding a niche wasn't so difficult.  Unseen, Crowley leaned through the nearest windowsill to the bed.  What he really wanted was to leave, but stubbornness kept him rooted to the spot.  When it got to be too much, the creepers were an excellent distraction.

They were beautiful, both of them, with flushed skin and plaster in their hair.

*        *        *

That evening, Crowley found himself in Aziraphale's back room, glaring hazily at the boxes.  He set his wine bottle down and gave the nearest one a hard kick.  
         
"The trouble with this is," he began, and then paused.  "Boxes.  Everywhere."

"Lots," Aziraphale agreed, giving the boxes an accusing look.  "Loads. Skeins—"

"That's yarn," Crowley said, vaguely proud of himself.  "With needles."

"Croquet," Aziraphale agreed wistfully.  "Always meant to learn."

"Nonono, s'knitty—knit—knitting," Crowley managed.  "Hooks and that.  Lots of…of…"

Aziraphale gazed at him expectantly, unusually nice-looking in the low light.

"Plaster," Crowley said miserably, taking a long swig of wine.

Aziraphale screwed up his face as if something was bothering him.

"Y'see, it was…hair.  And vines.  With plaster.  And skin, you'd honestly think—"

"Crawl—Crowley—"

"'S 'mazing," he mused, "what you can do with it."

"With what?" Aziraphale asked uncertainly, reaching for Crowley's bottle.

Crowley swiped it away with a hiss.  

"Plaster," he repeated, annoyed that Aziraphale's eyes wouldn't keep still so he could look into them.  "Like snow, but the difference is—" he sighed "—'s not cold."

"No," Aziraphale murmured, smiling almost sadly.  "No, it's not."

*        *        *

Crowley woke up with another headache.  _Fuck this_ , he thought, and got up.

The drive to Lower Tadfield improved his spirits, as Saturday drivers were notoriously touchy. By the time he reached the old airfield, he'd caused no fewer than two near-collisions and several double-takes.  Perhaps he'd drive without his sunglasses more often.  He parked in a rutted grassy spot and headed for the woods.

Crowley could hear a dog chasing something in the underbrush.

He found the boy sooner than he'd expected, perched alone in a tree.  Adam was watching the dog's progress, shading his eyes against the relentless sun, content.  

Crowley stepped cautiously through the brush, till he was close enough to touch the tree's trunk.  Briefly, he remembered the snag of bark on his scales.

Adam Young looked down at him, his eyes quick as a bird's.

"Hallo," Crowley said awkwardly, trying a smile.

"You shouldn't be here," said the boy, thoughtfully, but he smiled back.

"You shouldn't be apart," he added.

*        *        *

And, just like that, they weren't.

Aziraphale looked up from his book, tried to say something, and failed.  

"When did you—"

"Now, I think," Crowley said, equally confused.  "I was—"

"Sick of driving?" Aziraphale asked, smiling, and for the first time, Crowley noticed how tired the angel looked.  The faint lines about his eyes were worse than usual.

"No," Crowley said, remembering a far older pair of eyes peering at him.  "Yes. It's…"

Aziraphale stood up, setting his book aside.

"Complicated," he sighed.  "Yes, I know.  And entirely—"

"Don't use that word. If there's anything I'm sick of, it's ineffability."

Aziraphale smiled again, nervous, as if he had another plate to break.

"Actually, my dear, I was going to say—"

Crowley never found out what he was going to say, because he threw all discretion to the wind, complexity and ineffability be damned, and kissed Aziraphale till his sunglasses were skewed so badly that he couldn't see straight.  

Aziraphale made a strangled noise, but he didn't protest.

"I, um," Crowley panted, not entirely sure what to do next.

Aziraphale just stood there with his arms around Crowley's neck, blinking.

"Plaster?" he suggested, and Crowley laughed, kissing him all over again.

*        *        *

The bed was a mess before they even got there, partly because Crowley had already spent entirely too much time in it.  Aziraphale studied the sheets dubiously, but Crowley dragged him onto the mattress before he could protest.

"This is terribly unfair," Aziraphale murmured, running curious hands up Crowley's arms.  He gazed up at Crowley absently, perhaps thinking it was all a dream.

"You wish," Crowley said, working a finger in between two of Aziraphale's buttons.  "Maybe I was too quick to judge.  Nice, really, your ineffability."

"Oh, _do_ be quiet."

Unfortunately, Crowley was no such thing.  Aziraphale's skin took a beautiful flush under Crowley's fingertips, and when they touched, bare from shoulder to toe, he whimpered rather indignantly.  Aziraphale chuckled in his ear, twining around him like one of Anathema's creepers.  Crowley closed his eyes and moaned.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, voice harsh as they moved.

"Don't make me say it," he hissed, gasping against Aziraphale's skin.  " _Don't_ —"

"My dear, I wouldn't—wouldn't dream of— _of_ —"

" _Angel_ ," Crowley breathed.

He held Aziraphale and meant it.


	2. Grace Period

Aziraphale woke to the sound of rain, realizing before all else that he couldn't recall the last time he'd slept.  It wasn't that he found the practice unpleasant, it was just…unnecessary.  Or, in other words, something that Crowley did.

The unconscious demon hissed softly, even breaths in and out, almost like snoring.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, slipping his hand up Crowley's smooth back, and got no answer.  The demon's hair was tousled, and it smelled of woods and sunshine.

In the end, Aziraphale decided, it was really quite expected.  

He nuzzled the dark, tangled mess against his cheek, thinking.  The sound would take some getting used to; the back room of his shop was buried well away from any windows, and, lacking a proper bed, he imagined that he'd be spending considerable time in this one, as stormy nights wouldn't stop even for—er, well.  Blushing, he squeezed his eyes shut, almost too human for his liking.  _So_ human, in fact…

"Ow," Crowley muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

"It's your fault," Aziraphale said, which was probably unfair, because his hand was still toying with the soft hair at Crowley's nape, and Crowley was…responding.

"That's right, angel," murmured Crowley, lifting his head for a sleepy, awkward kiss.

There had been that, too.  Aziraphale hadn't been about to admit that he might as well have been _entirely_ clueless about such things, but it was a tremendous relief to discover that Crowley was experienced only insofar as sensuality came a bit more naturally to demons.  Actually, it had been comical and over all too quickly.  And breathless, and exciting. And positively divine, if it wasn't blasphemy to say so.

"Mmnh," Aziraphale agreed, squirming under Crowley until something felt familiar, heat and intensity nestled up between them.  He sighed and slid his free hand up the back of Crowley's thigh.  After all, nowhere was it written that an angel couldn't— 

"Aziraphale!"

"What?" asked the angel miserably.  "What did I do?"

He had hoped that he at least had an _idea_ …

"I'd be appalled if you weren't feeling me up just now, but since you are, carry on," Crowley said, latching onto Aziraphale's earlobe with an approving shove of his hips.

For the next two minutes, Aziraphale couldn't remember how coherent thoughts were supposed to work, but his hand had fortunately taken a hint and un-frozen itself.

"Oh," Crowley was whispering now, breath hot in Aziraphale's ear.  " _Oh_."

"That's all you can say?" Aziraphale asked, almost sorry his mind had returned.

The demon kissed him, deft fingers stroking from Aziraphale's jaw to his temple, and then back again.  "Angel.  Aziraphale. Love. What d'you want, sweet noth—"

Aziraphale shut him up again, far more pleased than he should be.

This was the part where things became even more awkward, and intense, and unbearably nice (though not in the sense of the word as typically employed by Agnes Nutter and her descendants).  Hours ago, it had been the reverse, Aziraphale flushed and desperate enough to grind the demon into his own designer sheets—he might have cringed to remember if they weren't doing it again, which wasn't in the least cringe-worthy as long as it was happening—but on the whole Aziraphale liked this turn so much that he'd be more than happy to oblige demonic imagination till Kingdom Come.

And he did, loudly and ungracefully.

" _Ssshhh_ ," Crowley hissed, lips gentle against Aziraphale's forehead.  "Neighbors."

Dazed, Aziraphale rolled them over, pinning Crowley on his back.  Served him right.

"Ngh, wha— _mmmf_ —" 

"My dear, I believe that's your department..."

" _Aziraphale_!"

*        *        *

Crowley was too nervous to properly cook, but he soldiered on.

"It's not burnt," he insisted, "It's just browned. Nothing some butter can't fix."

Aziraphale turned the pancake back over on his plate and stood up.

This was going to take some careful tact, if he could manage it.  It was hard to pull anything on Crowley these days, much like it was hard for Crowley to pull anything on him, as evidenced by the demon's present failing act.

"My dear, when did you last use that griddle?" Aziraphale asked, sliding a patient arm around Crowley's waist.  He pulled the demon in and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Crowley blinked at him a few times, possibly regretting that they'd bundled in dressing gowns before leaving the bedroom.  "Never," he admitted.  "Your point?"

Aziraphale kissed him again, slow and lingering.

"There now.  Have a seat and let me take care of it, _hmmm_?"

"I'm going to be fired," Crowley muttered under his breath, sinking into the nearest chair.  "I'm going to be chucked right out, I am _hopeless_..."

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale said from the kitchen, trying to figure out what in God's name Crowley had done in his flustered state to get the batter that consistency.

*        *        *

Showers tended to baffle Aziraphale.  He usually preferred a hot bath with bubbles or scented salt, but he supposed he could understand why those things just weren't Crowley's speed, especially when the jet of cold water hit him at a very high one.

"Turn it to the left," Crowley called helpfully from the bedroom.

"I ca— _aaaah_!"

"Other left," Crowley said, suddenly standing quite naked beside him.  He reached and turned the water down till it was only a trickle, and then back up again, a careful, coordinated turn of the wrist.  The dial had an absolutely unnatural range of motion.  "There.  Don't drown yourself, angel."

"Very funny," Aziraphale said, but his heart wasn't in it.  The water was a fine, soothing mist, and wet Crowley looked like some siren-creature from the deep.

"You're staring," said the demon smugly.

"I am not,"  Aziraphale said, turning to face the wall so that the spray caught his hair.  "I was trying to remember where I had seen your shampoo."

Snakelike, Crowley's arms slid about his waist.  "Heaven _forbid_ ," he murmured, shivering with a moment's hesitation, "that you should be caught staring."

"I shouldn't be wasting time," Aziraphale said, placing both hands on the demon's arms, unable to bring himself to remove them.  "The shop—"

"When was the last time you had customers on a Saturday morning?" Crowley asked.

"About six months ago, but this is different.  Somebody's made an appointment," Aziraphale said, which was unfortunately true.

"Cancel," Crowley whispered in his ear, lapping away some water droplets.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, hands tightening on Crowley's arms.

"How can I—"

"Lucky thing I've practiced your handwriting," Crowley said, and his words were made paper and sellotaped to Aziraphale's front door.  "Isssn't it?"

It was Aziraphale's turn to entertain thoughts of getting fired.

*        *        *

"They're staring," Aziraphale said nervously.

"They're not," Crowley insisted, drawing Aziraphale closer as he tossed a bit of crust.

The ducks warily eyed the couple on the bench, wandering up from the water.  One grabbed the crust and darted away, _gak-gak_ king accusingly.

"They find it demeaning," Aziraphale said. "Only pigeons beg."

"What about your little white friend?  Shameless, as I recall."

"He wasn't keen on fighting, as _I_ recall."

Crowley laughed. "When are you going to realize that even the most innocent of creatures on this earth are easily reduced to ignoble actions?"

"He was hungry," Aziraphale squeaked.  "That's hardly ignoble."

"You're losing this one, angel," Crowley said, tone soft and amused.

"My dear," Aziraphale said, touching the demon's cheek, "I think not."

The ducks eyed them warily, and then went in search of the Russian Cultural Attaché.

*        *        *

The pretty young hostess at the Ritz remembered them.

She beamed, leading them to the same table as before.

"Has she always been like this?" Aziraphale asked, vaguely disconcerted.

"More or less," Crowley said absently, studying his menu.

Aziraphale picked up his own and wondered about the people who had stumbled into his shop on occaisions when Crowley had been there, and if they thought...

"Please don't tell me you're not enjoying this," Crowley said abruptly, dropping his menu with a sigh.  "Look, I couldn't bear it if you weren't."

Aziraphale opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

He reached across the table instead and took Crowley's hand.

He had never seen the demon blush before.  It suited him.

*        *        *

Aziraphale squinted into the cabinet, trying to find his last bottle of Château d'Yquem.

It did not appear to be there.

He turned around.  "Crowley, my dear, have you seen...oh."

"Excellent stuff," said the demon, offering him the bottle.

Aziraphale sighed and got up, returning to his seat.  He accepted the bottle, running his fingers thoughtfully across the worn label.

"Perhaps we _should_ take a holiday.  Someplace warm."

"I'm not going to Greece," Crowley said, switching to scotch.

"No, I had something rather more Continental in mind."

"You're sober," observed the demon, frowning.  "Why're you sober?"

"Because I'm all of a bottle behind, thank you very much."  He swallowed as much of the wine as he could without choking. "You got a head-start."

" _Mmm_ ," Crowley agreed, leaning across the table to touch the tip of Aziraphale's nose.

Aziraphale realized that this wasn't going to get much of anywhere if he didn't stop thinking, so he drank up and contented himself with watching the way Crowley's eyes seemed to flicker. He moved the demon's hand from his nose to his lips, kissing it.

"Too many bloody boxes," Crowley said clearly, "and no bed.  'S a shame."

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's palm thoughtfully, watching the luminous eyes half-close.  "Straighten up, and perhaps I'll consider riding back with you."

Crowley sat back, immediately lucid.  "Whatever will your customers say?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Aziraphale said, annoyed.  "I'm _never_ open on the sabbath."

"Well, then," Crowley said, collecting their coats.  "What are we waiting for?"

*        *        *

Crowley kissed him the way the music sounded, and by that alone Aziraphale knew that something about this time was going to be different.

"What, is it too loud?" asked Crowley, anxiously.

"No," Aziraphale murmured, tracing the fine contour of his cheek.  "Not at all."

Crowley's eyes glowed, soft and subdued.

"This time of night, the neighbors are louder than I am."

"Well, it's to be expected," Aziraphale said, wiggling his arm, which had quite fallen asleep under Crowley's weight.  "They're human, and it is the weekend after all."

"I don't know you," Crowley said, blinking at him.

Aziraphale sat up, staring over at the speakers.  They fell silent.

"What do you think you're doing?" Crowley asked indignantly, struggling to get up, but the couch seemed intent on swallowing him.

"Listening to you," Aziraphale said. "As much as I appreciate Purcell."

Crowley sank back, eyes calming.  He drew Aziraphale's hand up his bare chest.

"Oh," Aziraphale murmured.

"Is that all you can say, angel?" Crowley asked in a quiet voice, now strangely intent.

"No," Aziraphale admitted, running his fingers across the demon's lips.  "Not by far."

"I know," Crowley said, which was exactly the trouble, he _always knew_.

Aziraphale finished undressing himself, and then curled as close to Crowley as he could.

"I can't let the bloody bookshop have you," Crowley muttered.  "Not nights, anyway."

"Too dusty for this sort of thing," Aziraphale heard himself say.

The demon materialized a blanket, snuggling it up to their chins.

"Too many boxes," he agreed.

"I'll have to sell most of those off, which means I'll have to open the shop."

"What a terrible conundrum," Crowley purred, stroking Aziraphale's hip, which was distracting.  "Perhaps I'll give you a little help.  All in self-interest, of course.  I'm sure I could be persuasive about dusty old books if I put my mind to it."

"It isn't funny."

"It is.  I always said you wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do when you finally had too many books.  Looks like I'm right, yes?"

Aziraphale kissed Crowley, which seemed to be the best solution to any number of inconvenient conversations now that the option was open.  Rather nice, really.

The music swelled back to life.


	3. The Battle's Other Half

It wasn't exactly true that Aziraphale didn't have a bed, but what he did have was a lousy excuse for one.  A mattress on the floor, however full the pillows and soft the quilts, did not adequate back support provide.  Crowley rolled over, muttering, because Go—everybody knows that a warm angel is more comfortable than—

Except Aziraphale wasn't there, which presented a problem.

Crowley sat up and rubbed his eyes, glancing around the room.

The window was tiny, but the morning was bright enough for him to make things out.  Aziraphale's dressing table was immaculate, and a Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor.  Crowley got up and wandered over to the mahogany wardrobe.

The smell of mothballs was strong enough to knock Crowley over, but he wasn't about to be deterred.  Nosiness and disrespect were, after all, in his nature.  He recognized the magician's coat instantly and smiled in spite of himself; close inspection of one sleeve proved that Aziraphale hadn't managed to get off all the cream pie.  Crowley let it drop and trailed his fingers across the row of hung garments, remembering—

Downstairs, a bell jangled noisily.

"Right," Crowley said to his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, flashing a grin.

He conjured himself a pair of leather trousers, and then wandered out.

"Now," Aziraphale was saying, carefully taking down a book from the shelf behind the counter as an eager young woman looked on, " _this_ , I think you'll find, is—"

"'Morning," Crowley said, yawning, lounging in the doorway that led to the back room.  "Shall I put on coffee?"  He ran his fingers through his hair for emphasis, couldn't hurt.

Aziraphale spun around, as if he'd forgotten about leaving a demon unattended in his flat.  He went a shade of red that Crowley hadn't seen since that Eden business.

"Crowley, do you _mind_?" sputtered the angel, eyes darting back and forth between his client and Crowley.  "I'm a bit pre— _ah_ , occupied at the moment, this young lady…"

"Sssure," Crowley said, smiling lazily, and winked at the poor, flustered girl before wandering into the kitchenette.  He rummaged in the cupboards and found some instant, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.  Aziraphale needed a coffee machine.

Crowley leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and waited for the water to boil.  He heard the girl's voice, soft but clear, punctuated every so often by Aziraphale's nervous laughter.  Finally, the bell jangled and the door slammed shut.

Aziraphale stomped into the kitchenette, as close to furious as an angel could get.  "Of all the stunts that you've ever pulled, I hope you know that was _the single_ —"

"I couldn't have her thinking that you were, could I?"

" _Crowley_!  She was a customer!  I can't imagine that letting shirtless—" Aziraphale waved his hands distractedly "—er, people wander around one's shop is good for—"

"On the contrary, I think it'll be a hit," Crowley said confidentially, taking hold of Aziraphale's lapels.  Up close, the angel never smelled of mothballs.  "Just think about it.  If she tells her friends about that _scandalous_ little incident in Soho—"

"My book shop isn't scandalous," Aziraphale said, sounding hurt, but the corner of his mouth twitched as Crowley ran a finger down his cheek.  The kettle was whistling.

"Tea, angel?" murmured Crowley.

"Don't think you're getting off so easy," Aziraphale muttered several minutes later into a cup of Assam.  "I've never been so embarrassed in my life, and _what_ are you smirking about?  Suppose she reports us for indecency, what then?"

"We leave early, that's all," Crowley said cheerfully, sitting down across from Aziraphale with his coffee.  It was terrible, but it would have to do.

"We're not leaving till you promise me you'll be on your best behavior," Aziraphale warned, setting down his tea.  "We're conspicuous enough as it is."

"You should really consider letting the duck incident go," Crowley said.  "They don't know any better.  Their brains are nowhere as big as dolphins'—"

"I'm not in the mood for this, thank you," Aziraphale said irritably into his tea.

Crowley slumped in his chair and stretched out his foot until it brushed Aziraphale's ankle.  "Do you think _I'm_ in the mood for this?  Your mattress springs dug into my back all night.  If we'd stayed at my place, I could've slept another two hours and you wouldn't have had to open the shop, and none of this would have happened."

"Your logic is truly staggering."

"Thank you."  Crowley scrunched his toes up in Aziraphale's sock.

"What part of 'I'm not in the mood for this' didn't you—oh."

"Bed," Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale out of his chair.  "If you can call it that."

*        *        *

"You want to _drive_?" Aziraphale asked, horrified.  "Fire was taxing enough, you said so yourself, but _water_?  Please, my dear, think of the car."  If that wouldn't change the demon's mind, Aziraphale didn't know what would.  Probably nothing.

"I am," Crowley said.  "That's why I'll be needing your help, isn't it?"

Aziraphale let out his breath, exasperated.  "I don't think I'm supposed to do that sort of thing.  We'd be far too visible. Can you imagine if any hapless ferries—"

"It's only the Channel," Crowley said, tapping the remote. "Quiet, I'm missing this."

Aziraphale grabbed the remote and hit as many buttons as he could—far too many of them to tell which was which, he'd have to hope for the best—but the television remained on whatever gameshow it was that they were watching. The demon was glaring at the screen much harder than he had been a moment ago.

"That's not fair, you know," Aziraphale sighed, dropping the remote on the floor.

Crowley's brow relaxed.  "One bad turn deserves another."

"I was trying to get your attention.  You can't blame me for that."  Aziraphale felt Crowley's arm tense around his shoulders.  He held his breath, waited for the strike.

"Consider it penance for the tartan luggage carrier," Crowley said, relaxing abruptly.  "Don't you dare think I've forgot about that. Or about the Gilbert and Sullivan tape—"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with Gilbert and Sullivan—"

"Aaaand our winner for today is _CROWLEY_ ," said the gameshow host.

"What?" said both of them at once, staring at the television.

_CROWLEY, ARE YOUR SPEAKER-WHATSITS INTERFERING AGAIN?_

"No, lord," Crowley said, clamping his hand hard over Aziraphale's mouth.  "Er, I mean, yes.  Sorry."  Aziraphale watched the volume bars appear on the screen, tick downward, and then tick back up as Crowley cursed under his breath.  "Yes?"

_WE HAVE AN ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU, CROWLEY._

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop through the bottom of the sofa at exactly the same moment a strange voice inside his head started gibbering _but but but_ …

Crowley's grip loosened, but he didn't remove his hand.

"You mean you're not ups—er, you do, lord?"

_IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT YOU HAVE BEEN NEGLECTING CERTAIN CONTINENTS, CROWLEY, ESPECIALLY IN LIGHT OF CURRENT EVENTS._

Crowley gulped.  "Funny you should mention that, I was just about to leave for—"

_NORTH AMERICA, IF YOU KNOW WHAT IS GOOD FOR YOU.  SO TO SPEAK._

Aziraphale's heart sank to join his stomach.  He avoided the United States if he could help it, albeit guiltily.  He clutched Crowley's arm in sympathy.

"Canada it is," Crowley said, clearly trying very hard to sound enthusiastic.  "Québec hasn't tried going independent for a while, has it?  I should probably—"

_NOT CANADA, CROWLEY.  WE NEED YOU IN NEW ENGLAND._

Aziraphale whimpered.  He remembered last time all too well, right down to the Tea Party, which, contrary to popular belief, hadn't been political.  It had been personal.

"Erk," Crowley said.  "Yes, lord."

_WE'RE COUNTING ON YOU.  WE HAVE BIG PLANS FOR BOSTON IN THE NEXT FEW DECADES.  WE HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THAT CONSTRUCTION IS YOUR SPECIALTY._

Aziraphale couldn't help but note a hint of sarcasm in the hijacked voice.

"Um," Crowley said blankly.  "If you like, lord."

_CONSIDER THIS YOUR PUNISHMENT, CROWLEY.  I HAVE IT ON THE AUTHORITY OF SEVERAL SOURCES THAT THIS TRIP WILL BE TORTURE FOR YOU._

Crowley blinked at the television screen, and then turned to stare at Aziraphale.

"Yes, lord," he said under his breath.  "Definitely will be."

_HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.  UNTIL NEXT TIME, CROWLEY._

The gameshow host's voice warbled back to normal. Crowley closed his eyes with a violent shudder.  He buried his face in Aziraphale's neck with a groan, and then remembered himself, pulling away, letting his hand fall from Aziraphale's mouth.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale murmured, reaching to touch him.

Crowley tensed as if he meant to push Aziraphale away, and then sighed, slumping.  "Bloodyhateitwhentheydothat," he mumbled against Aziraphale's shoulder.

"It _is_ rather unpleasant," Aziraphale agreed, although he couldn't remember the last time he'd been notified of anything in such a fashion.  His people preferred post.

"I'm supposed to find whoever's in charge of this bloody great highway renovation project and bugger it up," Crowley muttered.  "And it's only in paperwork, they don't start tearing anything up till next year."

"Then all that they can reasonably expect at the moment is reconnaissance," Aziraphale said thoughtfully.  "I suppose a road trip couldn't hurt, could it?"

Crowley stared at him, horrified.

"Are you kidding?  Take the Bentley across the _Atlantic_?"

"It's only an ocean," Aziraphale echoed, feeling smug and finding that he liked it.

"You're mad," Crowley said, sitting up straight and finally shoving him off, never mind what he'd been doing to Aziraphale just that morning.  "We're going to fly."

Aziraphale blanched.  "See here, that's almost as bad!  Think of how exhausting—"

"First class, angel," Crowley said, mussing Aziraphale's hair.  "I'm not _that_ stupid.  Besides, British Airways has a tolerable wine list."

"Thoughtful of you, my dear," Aziraphale murmured.

*        *        *

"Your people had to have been behind this," Crowley grumbled, wrapping his coat tighter about himself.  "Mine can't abide long waits for public transit."

"I didn't see to it personally," Aziraphale replied, sitting down on one of the wooden benches that jutted out from the station wall.  "You must give us credit for the Underground's efficiency.  What would you call this—backward, by comparison?"

"Arse-backward," Crowley said, glaring up at a nearby sign.  "The color-coding is a nice touch, might I add.  I'm sure they don't call this the Blue Line for nothing."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, and then patted the bench.  "Please stop pacing, Crowley," he said.  "You'll make them nervous."

Crowley surveyed the other travelers on the platform, all weary and heavy-laden with baggage, gave the nearest one a smile, and then sat down beside Aziraphale

"Couldn't hurt. This place hasn't had any excitement since the Revolution."

"It has so," Aziraphale said. "If I'm not mistaken, they measured the weight of a soul at Massachusetts General Hospital."

"Don't forget the Red Sox," Crowley replied. He watched the angel stiffen.

"My dear, don't _mention_ them," Aziraphale said as the train roared up, aghast.

Subway systems were, by Crowley's reckoning, the perfect locations for testing human mettle.  There was nothing like a cramped, enclosed, fast-moving space when it came to making people uncomfortable.  Once they'd claimed seats near the end of the car, Crowley idly surveyed the other passengers.  Housewives, three teenagers, a handful of ragged businessmen, and some college students.  He had worked with worse.

Crowley crushed Aziraphale in his arms and kissed him before he could say anything to the contrary.  The down-side to this was that Crowley couldn't watch the effect that his arranged snog was having on the other passengers, but it was, all things considered, a win-win situation.  After a few seconds, the indignant, rapid rise-and-fall of Aziraphale's chest calmed against his own, and the angel met him kiss for kiss with a resigned (but not at all disappointed, Crowley noted with satisfaction) sigh.  

Three stops later, the car was slightly emptier than it had been, with the exception of two housewives staring at the ceiling and most of the college students minding their own business.  One of the teenagers looked away quickly, unable to hide her interest, blushing furiously.  The last businessman was asleep, head bouncing off the glass.

"We'd better start paying attention," Aziraphale croaked.  "We need to switch soon."

Three lines and a frazzled cab driver later, they stood in front of the Park Plaza on Arlington Street.  Crowley handed Aziraphale's valise to the bellhop, and then nudged him inside.  Aziraphale scrutinized the lobby, as if he doubted Crowley's judgment.

"Couldn't you have gone in for something a bit more...er, low-key?" he asked.

"You mean Cambridge?" Crowley asked dryly.

"There _is_ a particular inn I had in mind."

"Did you stop to think about whether or not it's still there?"  Crowley met the concierge's cool glance, handing him credentials that didn't actually exist.

"Please," Aziraphale said helpfully, peering over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Crowley signed the slip, scooped their keys off the counter, and hustled the angel to the nearest lift.  You couldn't take Azirpahale anywhere that didn't involve good books, good food, or good wine.  While good hotels did, in fact, usually have the latter two, they still seemed beyond him.

When they reached the fifth floor, Crowley clicked open their room without so much as unsheathing a key.  All the lights went on as they stepped inside.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale murmured, instantly distracted by the carpet.

Crowley ignored the angel's curious exploration and left his boots a few steps behind, flopping down on the bed.  The remote control was within easy reach, and American television was notoriously bad.  Well, except for the news.  Most corruptible anchors in the world, as far as Crowley was concerned; it made his job infinitely simpler.  Just as he was about to hit the power button, he was beset by visions of Hell speaking through Dan Rather. He put the remote back down and sighed.

"Crowley, you should come see," Aziraphale called from the bathroom, voice echoing off the tiles.  "This shower is more complicated than yours."

"Charming, I'm sure," Crowley said. "How about room service?  Appetizers, wine?"

"Both," Aziraphale said, and Crowley heard the faucets turn off and on several times, followed by the flushing of the toilet.  "And dessert."

Crowley sighed and picked up the phone.

"If you want any say in this order, angel," he said, dialing, "get out here."

Much later, when the food was gone and the bottle of champagne emptied twice over, Aziraphale curled up half-dressed against Crowley's chest and dozed off, wings twitching gently in his sleep.  Crowley gestured low the lights and stared out the window, running his fingers absently through soft hair and even softer feathers.

For the first time, it occured to him that he was in over his head.

The hell of it was, though, that he didn't actually _mind_.

*        *        *

Aziraphale couldn't decide what he liked best: falling asleep or waking up.

At the moment, waking had the upper hand.  He was warm under the covers—he had no conscious memory of how he had actually got there, which made him smile all the more—and Crowley was wrapped around him, hiss-snoring softly in his ear, wings folded around them to hold his own winched in, impossibly tight. 

Briefly, Aziraphale considered kissing along Crowley's jaw till he stirred, which would have produced certain desirable results without fail.

This was another kind of different—like the Purcell, but with an airy hint of Britten.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, drifting off.  Besides, Crowley was insufferable before ten o'clock, and there was that thing he called jet-lag.

*        *        *

The hack wouldn't be simple, but Crowley had all day.  The Public Library was so free with computer access that Aziraphale seemed to think it served them right.

Crowley grinned and tapped the keys, meeting another password prompt.  

With any luck, he wouldn't _see_ the angel all day.

*        *        *

"You didn't," Aziraphale said, mortified.  The last time he had checked, _reconnaissance_ had not meant _full-scale execution_.

"It's all set, really," Crowley said, sounding pleased with himself.  "You wouldn't believe what you can do with Paint."

"On a _computer_?"  Aziraphale furrowed his brow, pausing mid-stride.

"Never mind, angel.  Don't hurt yourself," Crowley muttered, hooking his arm through Aziraphale's and tugging him along.

"How do you know they won't notice that something is amiss?" Aziraphale asked, stubbornly dragging his feet.  The fountain was sort of charming, with swans.  "I'm sure the architect knows those plans by heart, dear boy."

Crowley stopped this time, giving him a disgusted look.  "It's called subtlety."

"I hadn't noticed," Aziraphale murmured, glancing at their reflection in the water.

"There must be a Ritz around here somewhere," Crowley said under his breath.  "Come on.  The sooner you're fed, the sooner you're distracted and off this topic."

"Angels never forget," Aziraphale said lightly, hooking their arms a bit tighter.

*        *        *

"No!" Crowley burst out suddenly, jabbing his wine bottle at Aziraphale, who was beginning to look quite fuzzy.  "'S elephants."

"What?" hiccuped the angel, trying to take it away from him, grasping thin air instead.

Crowley rolled to the far side of the bed, dropped the almost-empty bottle on the floor, and then rolled back over and grabbed Aziraphale before the angel could get it into his mind to go anywhere, like Cambridge, which Crowley was avoiding at all costs.

"They never forget," Crowley said, throwing a leg over Aziraphale to hold him in place.  "'S not angels.  Can't even remember…er, can't…"

"Not true," Aziraphale said, wine-warm breath caressing Crowley's cheek.  "I remember lots. Like the time those buggers down th'harbor in rouge and feathers…"

"War paint," Crowley said irritably, not so drunk as to let Aziraphale mix things up.  "Made 'em look like bloody Indians.  'S the point, see.  The point."

"Went without tea for months," Aziraphale said, eyes far too wide.  "Bloody snakes."

"Indians," Crowley corrected him, leaning in to lick Aziraphale's lower lip.

"Never forget," Aziraphale murmured, distracted, eyes now not so much hurt as crossed, trying to look at his own mouth.  "And anyway, I meant you."

"Had no idea," Crowley said with as much sarcasm as he could muster, which was admittedly not much because Aziraphale's leg had ended up between his own and the angel's toes were curled against his calf, wiggling every now and then.  "None.  Not…"

Crowley kissed Aziraphale just to make him stop crossing his eyes.  It was giving him a headache.  The angel made a low sound and rolled over, pressing Crowley onto his back.  Had the fortunate tendency to do that when he wasn't himself, Crowley noted.

From there, Crowley couldn't quite remember what happened, except they kept kissing and Aziraphale unbuttoned his clothes, and with the angel's hand stroking curiously over his chest and down to his belly sent shivers down Crowley's spine.

Aziraphale hummed.

" _Mmm_ ," Crowley agreed, which he hoped was an appropriate response.

Aziraphale watched him intently, and then let his hand go still.

" _Ngh_ ," Crowley protested, "don't—"

Aziraphale brushed a kiss against his lips and murmured, "About that tea?"

Crowley groaned, writhing in protest.  No bloody time for this.  Couldn't— 

Aziraphale splayed his fingers, and then closed them again, and Crowley's mind went blank except for white fire anywhere that the angel touched or breathed.

"I'm sorry!"

"Thank you," Aziraphale whispered, and his hand wasn't so hesitant anymore.

Crowley clung to him, engulfed in flame.

*        *        *

Aziraphale silenced the alarm clock and unfurled his wings to shield them from the morning.  If setting the contraption had been Crowley's idea of a joke, Aziraphale wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of waking to enjoy it.  Half dozing, he kissed the demon's forehead.  Always beautiful, but more so when reduced to begging.

"You're plotting," Crowley said some time later through a mouthful of bacon.  "Not even angels are this nice first thing in the morning.  Well, it's not going to work.  You already got me to—never mind, it was two hundred years ago but you _still_ —"

"Be a dear and eat up," Aziraphale said, touching another piece of bacon to his lips.

*        *        *

"Still boring," Crowley hissed, grabbing a copy of the _Times_ as they passed a news-stand.  "There's been nothing new under the sun since that cow in the bell tower. I say we pay a visit to MIT, _that's_ where my people have had reasonable success."

Aziraphale stopped to pay for the paper, and then caught up.  "Really, dear, the same old dome over and over?  If I didn't know any better, I would say your people were the unimaginative lot.  Traditionally, Harvard has turned out the finest—"

"We're discussing pranks, angel.  Not scholarship," Crowley reminded him, and then unfolded the _Times_.  London was faring fine without them.

Amongst other numerous faults, Cambridge had far too many shops that Aziraphale found interesting.  Crowley lowered the paper to turn the page, only to realize that Aziraphale had ducked under the red awning to their right and vanished through the door.  Crowley frowned at the window until he realized what he was looking at.

The interior smelled of dust, tea, and finely-aged cheese.  Crowley paused beside the deli counter, fingers poised against the glass.  More than acceptable for lunch, he thought, flattening up against the counter in order to let someone pass behind him.  There was barely enough room to maneuver, so he moved on, finding Aziraphale buried in an impressively stocked tea section, which was no less cramped.

"You can get this at home," Crowley said dubiously, fingering a tin of Earl Grey.

Aziraphale ignored him, taking box after box off the shelves, treating each with reverence.  He slid past Crowley with a tin of Russian white tea clutched to his chest.

Crowley trailed after him, bumping into a young man with sharp dark eyes and a box of Darjeeling clutched in both hands.  While the angel was sidetracked in jams and jellies, Crowley went looking for alcohol.  Small selection, but high quality.  He slipped a slender bottle of _Eiswein_ into his coat and found Aziraphale where he'd left him.

"I can't help," Aziraphale said weakly, by now juggling four or five expensive items awkwardly against his chest, "that I'm running low."

"No, of course not," Crowley said, deciding not to argue.  He tilted Aziraphale's chin up and kissed him, annoyed to find that, in his mind, such a scene now warranted such a response.  For the briefest moment, he felt human eyes on them.

"My dear," murmured Aziraphale, blushing faintly over his armful of jars.

Crowley pushed his way to the register, ridiculous words crowding in his throat.

*        *        *

"There's something odd about this place, too," Aziraphale said, wrapping both hands around his teacup for warmth.  No matter where one went, chai spices didn't change.

"This restaurant?" Crowley asked, glancing around the dining room.  "About the decor, maybe—those wood carvings are tacky, and I think the paintings are from Thailand."

" _Shhh_ ," Aziraphale chided, sipping his tea.  "No, I was referring to the Square.  I'm amazed that I haven't felt it more often.  You would expect to find places like Paris or Amsterdam positively glowing with it."  He knew that Crowley hated Amsterdam.  It had room for, as the demon put it, nothing new under the sun.

"Oh, your 'great sense of love' thing again?" Crowley asked, feigning disinterest.

"Yes," Aziraphale said.  "To overflowing, I might add."

Crowley made a face at his menu.

"I'll remember that when they start looking for suggestions on Hate projects."

Aziraphale was vaguely horrified; it wasn't like Crowley to make threats.

"You wouldn't dare."

"No, angel," he said, reaching across the table for Aziraphale's hand.  "I wouldn't."

Behind the sunglasses, his eyes seemed honest.

"Why, pray tell?"

"Because you'd go off on one of your old I'm-not-speaking-to-you-for-a-century fits, which you always break within a fortnight, and I'd have nobody but the blasted plants, which, thanks to you, have lost every last atom of respect they ever _had_ for me."

"I'll have a word with the plants," Aziraphale said.

Neither of them looked away.

*        *        *

"Excuse me, sir," said the concierge.  "This arrived while you were out."

"Er," said Crowley, staring blankly at the parchment envelope in his hand.  Aziraphale snatched it away just as his fingertips started to itch.

"Thank you.  Have a pleasant evening."

"That's his line," Crowley said once they were inside the lift.  He glanced at the envelope, and then swallowed.  "Don't tell me that's…"

"It is," Aziraphale said, brow furrowed, and opened it.

As a rule, Crowley considered pacing cliché, but Aziraphale took his time reading, so he didn't have much choice.  He paced straight into the hall when the door finally slid open, followed by a hesitant Aziraphale.  Crowley couldn't imagine that anything Heaven could come up with was half as bad as the verdicts that came out of human court systems, but it didn't prevent him from pacing back to the room.

Aziraphale drifted behind, reading intently.

"Well?" Crowley burst out. "Are they at least sending you someplace decent?"

Aziraphale looked up, mildly confused.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said.  "They're not sending me anywhere."

Crowley slumped on the bed, realizing just then how hard his heart was beating.

"It's a commendation," Aziraphale said, and tossed it in the dustbin.

"A _what?_ " Crowley croaked.

"Commendation," Aziraphale said, toeing out of his shoes.  "Though quite a vague one, if you ask me, so it doesn't mean much of anythi—Crowley?"

Crowley was on his feet again, shaking, and Aziraphale was still endearingly confused.  At this point, there was no use fishing for excuses, so he pulled the angel close and kissed him until his head spun and the room tilted them onto the bed.

"Couldn't—have that, can't—tell you—how bloody _worried_ —" Crowley couldn't talk and kiss at the same time, but his mouth was quite insistent that he try.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, and in a split second both of them were naked.

"Ridiculous," Crowley heard himself say, but he was embarrassingly hard and his clothes were gone and it wasn't in the least funny.  "You talk like an Austen novel."

Aziraphale kissed him again, squirming to get comfortable.

"You've _read_ Austen?"

"No," Crowley said, brushing the Aziraphale's untidy hair out of his eyes, "but I've heard things."  His chest felt tight, and he had the nasty suspicion it wasn't because the angel was sprawled on top of him, either.

Crowley couldn't remember teaching Aziraphale to use his tongue in kissing; he must have picked that up himself.  He let his hands wander anywhere they could reach—the angel's arms, sides, shoulders, the backs of his thighs.  Aziraphale squeaked.

"Owed you one," Crowley said softly, and Aziraphale's eyes lit with wonder.

"Is that guilt I hear?"

"Don't get your hopes up," Crowley said, rolling Aziraphale over against the covers, which were comfortably rumpled.  He considered _DO NOT DISTURB_ signs amongst the cleverest of human inventions, though espresso was hard to beat.

"Crowley."  Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together, fingers lost in Crowley's hair. His breath hitched, and Crowley wondered if what the angel felt wasn't so different.

"It's you," he whispered.  "You're always there."

"What?" 

"When I've felt it, which hasn't been often until lately."

Crowley frowned; this was putting a damper on things.

"I don't understand."

"Dear boy," Aziraphale said fondly, "don't be stupid."

And he wasn't, really, just somewhat in denial, but it filled him from every point that they touched outward.  Warmth. Comfort, if he admitted to it.  A catch in his chest, a lump in his throat.  That giddy, swelling sense of freedom he got speeding down Oxford Street.  _Here._   He let his head drop to the angel's shoulder, shaking.

"If you say anything about this to _anyone_ , I'll…I'll…"  Crowley found that he was clinging, and that he didn't particularly want to let go.  Their fingers met, twined.

" _Shhh_."  Aziraphale kissed his hair, and the thought went out of his mind.

It was, after all, a great scene of love.


	4. Blessing in Disguise

It wasn't until early November, when she finally got around to sweeping the grate, that Anathema found the charred scrap of paper.  Despite being less than half a page, an entire block of antiquated print had curiously been spared.  Anathema read:

 

43\. An ye kenne weel those Powers  
Two of whyche I spake biforn, wonne  
who ys two namoore.  The oother sharl  
com alone unto thy doore, an sharl Watch  
with eyn of goolde.  Ye muft them Keepe in  
goode frendfchippe, or elles thou be Fooles  
bothe.  Unto thefe must ye wryte, or Calle  
wyth Wyres, an they sharl Bless youre Hous. 

 

Secretly, Anathema was glad that a portion of the second book had managed to survive, but its contents weren't quite what she would have hoped for.  Besides, it was glaringly obvious, and that took all the fun out of it.  She wondered if angels and demons had phone numbers, or if she ought to just look them up under bicycle repair.

They had to do _something_ in their spare time, didn't they?

That evening at dinner, she showed the scrap to Newt.  He frowned at it intently, stirring his soup.  He had warmed up to miso just fine, much to Anathema's relief, though he was terrible with chopsticks and wrinkled his nose at sushi.

"I don't know," Newt said.  "That sounds kind of creepy to me."

"She always sounded creepy," Anathema said, shrugging.  "After all, they were very kind.  Phaeton's better than new, and I could've sworn I broke something."

Newt slurped a spoonful of soup and handed the prophecy back to her.  "That part about one of them watching—sort of ominous, don't you think?"

"Not particularly.  It's been months, and nothing's happened."

" _Eyn of goolde_ , let's see," Newt said to himself, with deplorable pronunciation.  "Eyes?  Eyes of—"  He set down his spoon.  "I guess that explains the sunglasses."

"I told you, they're considerate," Anathema said, rising to fetch the kettle, "whatever else they are.  And I was terribly rude to them.  I imagine they get lonely, don't you?"

"They're quite friendly with each other.  I wonder if they get in trouble for that."

"Doesn't look like it," Anathema replied, and then poured two cups of tea.  "I'm sure Agnes would've mentioned that.  If she wants us to keep them in 'good friendship,' they can't be going anywhere."

"I still don't like the watching part," Newt muttered.

"Why don't we invite them to Sunday dinner?" Anathema suggested, carefully setting both cups down on the dusty table.  "If they like wine, they must like food."

"They like _people_ , anyway," Newt said suspiciously, blowing on his tea.

Anathema scowled.

Newt reached across the table and took her hand.

"I'm just being cautious.  But if you really think it's the right thing—"

"Agnes is never wrong.  She cares."

"Agnes has a strange way of showing it."

"I'm not arguing with you," Anathema said sweetly, collecting up the bowls even though Newt didn't seem to be finished.  "Did you happen to catch their names?"

"You know them better than I do," Newt said, suddenly very interested in his tea.

"I never got their names!"

Newt sighed.

"That demon fellow, I think the angel called him Crawly, or something like that."

"Oh, yes," Anathema said, the vowel ringing a bell.  "That's not sophisticated enough, though—I'm sure it must have been something more like Cr _ow_ ley."

"Either way," Newt said into his tea.  He reached for the newspaper he'd been scanning.  His side of the table was littered in clippings.  "The angel—something funny, with a 'z' in it.  Biblical.  No surprise," he added, reaching for the scissors.

 _Old habits_ , Anathema thought, and went looking for the phone book.

*        *        *

"Newt…"

"Mmmf."

" _Newt_ ," Anathema hissed, more loudly.  "Your alarm's gone off twice."

He yawned and buried his face in the pillow, throwing an arm across her.

"'S an improvement."

"Yes, well, you're going to be late," Anathema prompted, giving him a gentle shove.

"I don't care," Newt said, nuzzling her ear. 

Anathema sighed, staring at the ceiling.

They really ought to do something about it.  She always woke up looking as if she had the worst case of dandruff known to man.  They were still paying rent, but it was cheap rent, and she decided that they ought to try buying the place once they had enough money saved.  Nobody else seemed to want it.

"You're hopeless," she told him, running her fingers through his untidy hair, "and I love you.  Now, get up.  I want a lie-in."

Newt kissed her neck, giving a short laugh.  "No."

"You have to work.  We need a new ceiling."

"You could get a job, too."

"I have a job," Anathema sighed, giving in reluctantly to the warm fingers skimming up and down her side.  "I've been working on the bathroom since October."

"When you finish the bathroom, then."

"If I'm not expecting by the holidays."

Newt stiffened, probably blushing within an inch of his life.

Anathema kissed his hair.  "I'm joking."

"Work," Newt said, and got up.

Anathema pretended to sleep until he was gone, and then slipped out of bed.  First things first.  She wrapped up in Newt's old flannel robe and went to the kitchen, squinting out the windows on her way.  The sky was dull and cloudy, promising rain.  Anathema collected her herb tins from the cupboard and put the kettle on.

Just because she was young and in love didn't mean she had to be reckless.

Once the tea had steeped, Anathema sat down at the table with the phone book and a pencil.  She had been discouraged to find the previous evening that there were an unreasonable number of Crowleys in London.  Even if Anathema went by the ones with posh addresses, the list was still too long to consider calling every one of them.  She broke her pencil point on _Crowley, A. J._ and gave up, finishing her tea.

The angel, however—he was another matter.  Surely there couldn't be more than a few funny, Biblical-sounding names containing the letter "z."  Anathema fetched a bowl of fruit from the refrigerator and went back to the table, hopeful.

She thought of every angel-name that she knew, which wasn't all that many: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Ariel—no, wait, that was Shakespeare—Azriel?

"Hallo!" called a young voice from beyond the front door.

Anathema swore, hesitated, and tied the robe's sash more tightly about her waist.

"Yes?" she shouted back.  "Can I help you?"

"It's me.  Adam Young.  Are you busy?"

Anathema hurried to open the door, peering outside.  "Shouldn't you be at school?" she asked, looking Adam up and down.  He'd forgot his scarf.

"'M on my way," Adam said, smiling brightly, "but you're all by yourself."

Anathema said, ushered him inside. 

"Newt has to work, or we're out of a house."

"That's not right," Adam said contemplatively, looking around.  "But it'll be okay."

"You must be cold," Anathema said, leading him into the kitchen.  "Tea?"

"No thanks," said Adam politely, stepping up to the table.  "I've got to go soon."

"I daresay," Anathema said, wondering if something was bothering him.  Antichrist or not, the boy standing in her kitchen was still just a boy.  She went to the closet and pulled down her green scarf.  "Here," she said. "Take this, I have another one."

Adam looked up from the phone book, carefully setting a finger a third of the way down the first column of the page he had apparently flipped to in her absence.

"Here it is," he said, and then reached out to take the scarf.  "Thanks."

Anathema showed him out, watching until he passed the gate.  Shivering, she went back inside.  She sat down at the table and, without hesitation, traced down to approximately where Adam's finger had come to rest in the directory.

_Ziraphale, A._

She grabbed the book and ran to the phone.

The number was for a bookshop in Soho.

It rang five times before there was a click, and a familiar voice answered—though not the voice she had expected. "...bloody well told you it was over here.  Hallo?"

"I'm looking for Mr.—Aziraphale.  I'm looking for Aziraphale," Anathema said.

There was a confused pause on the other end.  "Beg pardon?  I'm sure there's no _A_ ziraphale on the premises, but if you mean Mr. Zir—"

"No," Anathema said. "I'm sure that I mean Aziraphale.  Mr. Crowley," she added.

"Who the _hell_ —"

"Really, I've got the point," Anathema said.  "Actually, I suppose I could talk to you."

"Who _is_ this?  Angel, I think you've got one of those crank—"

"You hit my bike," Anathema said helpfully.

" _Oh_.  Er…  This isn’t about some insurance claim, is it?"

"I'm sure you don't have insurance anyway," Anathema reassured him.  "I'm wondering whether you'd like to come over for dinner.  Both of you, I mean."

There was another pregnant silence.  "Are you sure this isn't about insurance?"

Anathema rolled her eyes.  "May I speak with Aziraphale?"

"Why?" Crowley asked, his voice taking on a shade of suspicion similar to Newt's.

"Because you're difficult," Anathema said.

"It's in the job description."

"Charming," Anathema conceded, "but difficult.  _Please_ , may I—"

"Oh, don't do that. Of course we'll come to dinner, when did you have in mind?"

Anathema blinked.  "What about Sunday?"

Crowley gave what sounded like a hiss, but it quickly turned into something like a snicker.  "Hey, angel, there's—" Anathema tapped her foot as the receiver went quiet, almost as if Crowley had put his hand over it "—knew you'd say that, all right, shut up, no, she didn't say to bring—yes," Crowley said abruptly, rather forced.  "He says that would be _marvelous_.  Though I should warn you, he might try to decorate—"

"Sunday," Anathema repeated, and hung up quickly.

It wasn't till she'd collected her wits that she realized she hadn't given them a time.

*        *        *

"You forgot to set a time," Newt said, dropping the knife to suck on his fingertip, "so you have no idea when they're showing up, only that they _are_ showing up?"

"Six," Anathema said firmly, taking him by the shoulders and directing him away from the counter.  "They'll be here at six." Ten after six, partly because she knew Crowley couldn't get to Tadfield without asking directions, and partly because she _knew_.

"I'll keep an eye on the oven, then," Newt said.

"No you won't," Anathema said, chopping hastily.

She sent him off with to sulk on the sofa, and then tried to figure out where he'd put the carrots.  Fortunately, they'd never made it out of the refrigerator.  She frowned at the salad, dimly aware that it wasn't going to be up to their standards and that Aziraphale was probably going to spend the whole of dinner making apologies for Crowley's lack of tact.  Anathema shook her head, added the chopped carrots, and set the bowl aside.  It was funny how much she'd learned from two brief encounters.

The table was clean—or as clean as it could be, at any rate.  Newt had cleared his clippings away, and Anathema had made a valiant attempt at dusting.  The wood was old and worn, mostly lacking varnish, and you couldn't set anything down without having it rattle or tip about like a three-legged chair.  She didn't have a tablecloth.  Bits of plaster kept falling down at intervals, littering the dark surface.

Newt's watch timer went off at ten till six, which meant the fish was done.  Anathema peeled back the tinfoil and wrinkled her nose, studying the morass of butter, seasoned breadcrumbs, and flounder.  She skewered a piece, and it promptly fell apart.

"Set the table, would you?" she called over her shoulder.

Thankfully, Newt rarely broke china.  By five after, the table was set with her finest—mostly mismatched—and two brass candlesticks came down from the mantle.  She hoped the candle colors (one lilac, one blue) wouldn't strike their guests as off.

Anathema hovered beside the table, hands clasped in front of her.

When the knock came at the door, Newt answered it.

"There's been a spot of rain," Aziraphale said, scuffing his fine (if old-fashioned) shoes on the threadbare mat.  His eyes fell on Anathema, brightening. "Hello, then," he said.

"Er," said Newt, stepping aside.  "Hi."

Anathema felt herself smile.  "Glad you could make it," she said, automatically stepping towards him.  "Let me take your coat."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Crowley said, closing the door behind them.  They were both coatless already, revealing a sharp contrast of attire.  The demon ran a hand through his hair.  As usual, he wore sunglasses.  Had she expected that he wouldn't?

While Newt stood on looking awkward, she accepted Aziraphale's embrace, standing on tip-toe to meet the demon's glance over his shoulder.  "I hope the drive was pleasant," Anathema said.  "It's been terribly dark today."

"So kind of you to notice," Crowley said with a thin smile.

"Well, food's getting cold," Newt said conversationally, edging towards the table.

"Dear girl, you've outdone yourself," Aziraphale said graciously, letting go of her.  He smelled like the library at home in Dorking—tea, dust, and well-loved leather.

"Of course I haven't," Anathema said automatically, realizing just then that she'd forgot to light— _ah_.  The candle flames danced merrily, playing shadows across Newt's astonished face.  "Won't you sit down?" she asked, feeling her stomach unravel.

Anathema permitted Newt to pull out her chair, and Aziraphale, who looked as if he'd been about to do the same, smiled indulgently and sat down himself.  Crowley took his time getting to the table, sweeping the entire cottage with—well, Anathema could only assume it was a cool glance, but she couldn't imagine it otherwise.

"Excellent décor," he said, sliding into the chair beside Aziraphale without so much as touching it.  "Might do well with a bit of tartan, hmm?" he said, lowering his sunglasses pointedly at Aziraphale.  He turned his glance and winked at Anathema.

"It still isn't funny," Aziraphale said sourly, and then offered her an apologetic smile.

Newt cleared his throat, reaching for the salad.  "Would you care to explain…?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Anathema said, leaving the angel and the demon to glower at each other.  "The night they hit me—"

"Let's talk about happier things," Crowley suggested, accepting the salad from Newt.  "Such as wine, can I tempt you to any?"  There was suddenly a bottle of something that Anathema didn't recognize beside him on the table, reminding her that she'd forgot the wine, too.  Like Crowley's suit, it looked dark and expensive.

"We're having fish," Aziraphale said, and it promptly turned colorless behind the green glass.  He reached right across Crowley and grasped the bottle by the neck.

"Of course," said Crowley, sniffing for emphasis.

Newt, in another fit of astonishing sensibility, began to serve the flounder.  Aziraphale had gotten the wine bottle open and was already filling Anathema's unsteady glass.

"What is it?" she asked, holding it up to the light.  Tiny bubbles danced along the rim.

"Champagne," Crowley said, holding his glass out to the angel, who shot him an irritated look, because he'd begun to reach for Newt's.  "That's all you need to know."

" _Mmm_ ," Anathema said.  She'd had champagne last Solstice and rather liked it.

Every now and again, she caught herself staring.

It was somehow difficult to process that it had been so simple, that the Two Powers were here, in her house, at her table, eating.  Aziraphale picked at his salad delicately, which Anathema had expected, but she hadn't expected to find herself transfixed.  She also hadn't expected that Crowley's manners would turn out to be no worse than the angel's, except he ate like he meant business, possibly as if he had fangs.  Maybe he did.  But for heaven's sake, it was _lettuce_.

"So," Newt ventured, gesturing with his fish-laden fork, "how have things been?"

"Since last we saw you, or in general?" Crowley asked, tilting his chin down slightly.

"Er," Newt said, flabbergasted.

"You've been traveling, haven't you?" Anathema asked, suddenly quite certain of it.

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale said, setting down his empty glass.  "We had a lovely bus—er, _ah_ , holiday, yes, a holiday in America," he said, glancing furtively at the demon.

"I've never been," Newt said, mildly envious.  "Florida?"

"No, no," Crowley said, cutting off a piece of fish.  "Nice try, but too far south."

"New England," Anathema ventured.  "You must have gone for the leaves."

"As much as Crowley would have enjoyed that, no," Aziraphale said, dabbing his lips with a napkin.  "We hadn't been to Boston in ages, so—"

"You can take that as literally as you like," Crowley said, looking at Newt again.

Anathema took Newt's hand under the table.  He had scarcely moved.

Aziraphale glared at the demon.  "As I was saying, ages, and I had quite forgot how charming Cambridge is, and of course there was the library.  Crowley even—"

"Business," the demon cut in testily.  "Gets to even the best of us.  But, yes, jolly good, restful and all that," he said rolling his eyes at the angel.  "What about you?"

"What?" Newt asked blankly.

"Renovation," Anathema said, pinching his wrist.  "We've been working on the cottage.  I can show you the bathroom after dinner, if you like."

"Before or after dessert?"

"Crowley!"

Anathema crushed her mouth to the back of her hand.  "Whenever you like," she mumbled, trying not to laugh.  She had hoped things would loosen up; the formality had grown oppressive.  She noticed that her glass was full again.  She hadn't asked.

Another half-bottle later, Newt was lightening up, not thinking so hard about the creature across from him.  Anathema kept hold of his hand for good measure, casually lacing their fingers.  Aziraphale kept smiling, and Crowley looked sour.

"So, we went back to the hotel," Aziraphale was saying, his cheeks noticeably flushed, "and you'd never believe it, but at the desk there was—"

"I thought you didn't want to talk business," Crowley reminded him, leaning close enough to the angel to startle Anathema out of her alcohol-induced haze.  It was endearing, really.  They were immortals, agents of good and evil, but they were so bloody _normal_ that she couldn't quite process it, or perhaps it was that she was tipsy.

"Strange, my dear, but I thought _you_ didn't," Aziraphale said, slurring a little, leaning towards Crowley.  They were so close now their profiles almost touched.

"Excuse me," Newt said, swilling his glass lazily, "but would anybody like cake?"

Crowley sat back in his seat, mildly flustered.  "Er, what sort?"

"Chocolate, I think," Newt said vaguely, wobbling as he stood.  "I didn't make it."

"Why don't you let me take care of that," Anathema said, tugging him back down.

Everything swam pleasantly, a sort of muzzy, softly glowing haze.  She could hear laughter behind her at the table—some of it Newt's, some of it Aziraphale's, some of it Crowley's—and everything seemed, for the first time in a long while, just right.  She took hold of the dish on the counter with both hands, breathing in and out.

There were no mishaps, though Crowley proved that he could not, in fact, cut a cake properly, no matter how loudly he insisted that he could.  Somewhere along the line, a second bottle had appeared on the table, and Anathema realized on some level that it was different from the first, which itself had lasted far longer than it should have.

"Here's to a—no, wait," Crowley said, bracing himself on the table, making everything rattle, as he rose from his chair, holding his newly filled glass high.  "A toast— _thing_ —you know, those things at weddings, silly drunk buggers with—"

"Hats," Aziraphale said, which apparently satisfied Crowley, because he sat down.

"Yes, hats.  Nonono, wait, not— _er_.  Toasts.  Things."

Anathema realized that they were on the way to getting very drunk, if they weren't there already.  She had never been drunk, exactly, so she wasn't sure what it felt like, and to the best of her knowledge, Newt didn't seem like the type for it, either.

"To…"  Anathema paused, raising her glass, uncertain, as there were far too many _things_ that one could propose.  Crowley seemed to have the right idea.

"To everything," Newt said, unexpectedly sober.  "And us."  

Four glasses clinked; nobody could argue with that.

"D'you know what?" Crowley said a short time later, half sprawled in his chair.

Aziraphale was still upright, but his eyes were glassy and fixed straight ahead on the blue candle, which was almost down to a stub.  Anathema watched it gutter.

"Hmmm?"

"'S a shame that old bloke isn't here.  Whassisname.  Ssssomething."

"Yeah," Newt agreed with feeling, apparently unable to remember Shadwell's name.  "He's all right.  Wish he'd stuck around.  'M bored out of my skull."

"They send postcards," Anathema said, patting Newt's hand.  "Every week."

"With birds on," Aziraphale said wistfully.  "Bloody big buggers.  Feathers. Nests."

"I thought that was gorillas," Crowley said to the angel, brow furrowing.

"It is," Newt said with surprising fervor.  "Saw it on television."

"I think it's getting late," Anathema said, frowning at her wine.

Aziraphale blinked and squinted, a moment later terribly embarrassed.

"Of course ssss'not," Crowley said, wagging his finger at Newt, as if urging him to hold that thought.  "If we got a teleb—televit—vision, just you wait and—"

"We don't have one," Anathema said, tugging Newt to his feet.  "We had better clear the table," she said to him, turning his head in her direction.  "Newt?"

"Er," he said, blinking sleepily.  "Er, yes.  What?"

Anathema sighed, slinging his arm across her shoulders.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Newt wasn't heavy, not really, but navigating him to the bedroom in that state was a challenge.  She got him sprawled out on the bed, where he murmured sleepily and promptly closed his eyes.  Anathema sighed and pulled his shoes off, dropped them on the floor, and then heaved his legs up onto the mattress.  He clung to her hand for a moment, blinking hazily, as if things were starting to clear a bit.

"I think," he said, licking his lips, "I don't drink often enough."

"Shhh," Anathema said, bending to kiss his forehead.  "Just rest."

His eyes promptly drifted shut.

Anathema started to leave, but she never made it past the doorway.  What struck her first was that the table appeared to be completely clear, and the sink was free of dishes.  Disoriented, she sank back against the frame, rubbing her forehead.  She didn't drink often enough, either.  When she opened her eyes, the table was still clear.

Her guests were on the sofa talking.  Or, more appropriately, arguing.

"Didn't mean to," Crowley slurred.  "'S not my fault if he can't hold—"

"Sober up," the angel said shortly, "this _instant_."

"What?" Crowley said.

"Oh, for the love of—for—never mind," Aziraphale muttered.

"You can get him some water if you like," Anathema said awkwardly.  "I'll just…"  She gestured vaguely over her shoulder.  "He's a bit…"

"Yes, and I'm very sorry about that," Aziraphale sighed.  A glass of water had appeared in his hand.  "I should have asked."

"No," Anathema said, still feeling heavy-headed herself.  "Take your time."

She backed up and sank down at the foot of the mattress, her cheek pressed into the duvet.  She thought she heard the beginnings of a heated row, and drifted off.

*        *        *

"…should never have let you agree to this," the irritated voice was saying in hushed tones.  "Now they're out cold, the poor dears, and I'll be damned if—we're not just going to leave them," it added huffily.  "So _there_."

"I hate you," the sulky one muttered.  "I really, really do."

Anathema opened her eyes, blinking away sleep, and remembered.  She crawled forward on all fours, peering into the darkness.  All the lights had been turned out, but the candles on the table stood tall again, burning strong and bright.

The angel and the demon were still on her sofa.

"Of course you don't," said Aziraphale.  They were just out of reach of the candlelight, and Anathema could see him in profile.  He looked tired.  Did they even sleep?

"How do you know?" Crowley asked.  The demon was sitting beside Aziraphale, clearly sober again.  He had his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes— _glowed_.  The glasses were perched on the back of the sofa, which was kind of comical.

"My dear, you're completely daft when you're drunk," Aziraphale said fondly.

"No better than you," Crowley said, folding his arms tighter.  "D'you mean to tell me we've got to sit here all blessed night and keep watch—"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "Think of it as another of your godfathering stints, if you like."

"There's plenty I'd rather be doing than godfathering," Crowley muttered.

Anathema settled against the wall and was still.  She shouldn't stay, but on the other hand, was it every day that one got to overhear conversations such as this.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said, hesitating.  "It's your own fault, and if I remember correctly, she didn't say to bring anything."

"Tiresome argument, angel," Crowley said, sliding his arm along the back of the sofa, almost snakelike.  "It was a good deed, was that entirely _lost_ on you?"  His hand curled around the angel's shoulder, stroking his upper arm.

"It was a stupid deed, and you know it.  I won't argue with you."

Anathema wanted to laugh, but she swallowed the impulse promptly.

"As you like it," Crowley said, leaning over.  He used his free hand to turn the angel's head.  "However, I will note," he continued, "since we're stuck on this bloody watch of yours, I get to claim certain…priveleges, if you will."

Aziraphale stiffened, turning his head sharply.  "You wouldn't— _mmm_."

Anathema watched them kiss, stunned, even though she shouldn't have been.

"I think," the demon said in a whisper, beginning a slow, sensuous shift that involved bracing both palms against the back of the sofa and sliding one leg across the angel's lap, "you had better hold that thought.  Better yet, don’t say a word."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide.  " _Crowley_!" he hissed.  "We can't—"

"Watch usss," he countered, and settled in, wrapping the angel's arms about his waist.

Anathema decided that she'd be having a word with Agnes first chance she got, but she didn't seem to have much choice in the matter, so she watched.

Crowley kissed Aziraphale again, slow and deep, hands fisting against the back of the sofa.  There wasn't anything particularly graceful about it; Aziraphale was making noises that fluttered between protest and pleasure, and in the end he just tightened his arms about the demon's waist and sighed, opening his mouth to the next kiss.

 _Like Newt_ , Anathema thought, curiously detached.  _Too much tongue_.

Crowley seemed to agree, mumbling indistinctly, bringing one hand up from the sofa to stroke Aziraphale's jaw.  There was furtive affection in the gesture, as if he didn't want Aziraphale to catch on, and probably Aziraphale wouldn't.  They parted after long seconds, and the angel's upturned face reflected wonder, love, and even lust.

Crowley was breathing fast, flustered, which was funny in a way that made her heart ache. His head fell forward against Aziraphale's. "I, um," he panted, "didn't…"

"No, my dear," the angel said softly, letting his hand fall from Crowley's cheek to his chest, drawing it down gently till his fingers rested at Crowley's belt.  "You didn't."

"Fuck thinking," Crowley said under his breath, or what was left of it, and guided the angel's other hand to the same spot.  "Aziraphale," he whispered.  " _Please_."

Anathema looked away for all of two seconds.

She had to've had more alcohol than she'd thought.

Aziraphale fumbled with the demon's belt, his own breathing horribly off, and somehow it was easier to watch the light reflected from his eyes, the way it played off the motion of his fingers and the way that Crowley hissed when the angel smoothed his trousers back, stroking pale, pale skin in the dim, shadowed glow of the candles.

"Oh," Crowley breathed, eyes drifting shut, hands fisting against the sofa again.

Aziraphale kissed him just then, stroking him with not-quite-practiced ease, and Anathema thought, dizzily, how strange it was that they should be like this, unarguably Other, yet so unarguably _human_.  Crowley writhed and panted, pushing his hips into Aziraphale's touch.  The angel, much to her amazement, stopped.

"Oh for the love of bloody _anything_ if you don't keep that up I _swear_ I'll—"

"Quiet," Aziraphale croaked, grabbing at the demon's hands.  " _Crowley_!"

He was one step ahead, yanking up Aziraphale's shirt, cursing as his fingers fought buttons and pale tweed.  "Your clothes," Crowley growled, "are horrible."

"They are— _oh_ , oh yes, just—not, and if you— _oh Crowley_ —"

"Angel," he said.  " _Angel_."

Even if Anathema had shouted, tried to break it, tried to crawl away and dissolve, they wouldn't have looked away from each other for anything.  She just _knew_.

And very silently the rest unwound, body against body, kiss after desperate, wholly-meant kiss, until they were a shaking wreck of tousled hair and rumpled clothes.

It was, Anathema reflected, awfully familiar.  

"As I was saying…"  Crowley started, but his face was buried in Aziraphale's neck, so he didn’t get very far.  He let go of Aziraphale's shoulders, hands falling limply to the cushions. Aziraphale didn't answer, running his fingers through Crowley's hair.

Too familiar, the more Anathema thought about it.  She pried herself up quietly, crawled across the threshold, and then drew herself up at the foot of the bed, swaying.

Newt slept on, undisturbed.

Anathema heard more talking after a while, but by then she had sprawled out beside Newt, on the brink of sleep.  She wondered if they would be there in the morning.

*        *        *

"Anathema…"

"Mmmf?"

"Hey," Newt said softly, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

Anathema tried to sit up, but the room tilted.  She closed her eyes and winced.

Newt kissed her forehead.  "Sorry," he said.  "Didn't get to say goodbye, did I?"

Anathema blinked up at him, trying to sort out what he meant, and it didn't take very long, either.  She rubbed her eyes and sat up, squinting at the window.

It was daylight.

"No," she said.  "You didn't.  They understood.  I think."

"That wasn't a bad idea," he mused, flopping back against the pillows, tugging Anathema with him.  "Though I think we ought to have a drinks limit for next time."

"Maybe," she said.

The alarm clock went off.  Newt snuggled closer, ignoring it.

Anathema held him, unable to protest.


	5. Revelations

Of all the compromising positions that Aziraphale had coaxed Crowley into, this was by and far his favorite—even though the demon had proved himself capable of some especially frightening noises.  He kissed Crowley's stomach soothingly.

"You stupid prat," Crowley panted, fingers limp in Aziraphale's hair.  "I love you."

" _Shhh_ ," Aziraphale said, and kissed his hip instead.

Really, it was terrifying.

Crowley extracted his hands and let them slip down to Aziraphale's shoulders, pressing impatiently.  "Get up here," he said, "or you'll have another problem on your ha…er…"

"A problem?" Aziraphale asked, sitting up.  "Is _that_ what I called it?"

Crowley was flushed, and his eyes, although vague, looked irritated.  

"Maybe I'll remember if you ask me a few centuries from now."

Aziraphale considered what they could do with a few centuries, but quickly set the thought aside.  "I'm sure that won't be necessary," he said, stroking Crowley's thigh.  "Besides, it doesn't much matter."  Aziraphale settled down beside him, pleased. 

"No," Crowley muttered.  He was beginning to turn bright red.

Aziraphale had the impulse to laugh, but he ignored that, too.  Crowley was warm and pliant and not much inclined to complain after certain activities, and he curled under Aziraphale's arm with a sated murmur.  His head against Aziraphale's chest did peculiar things, like make Aziraphale's heart leap instantly to beating.

Unnecessary, but pleasing.

"Little though I would like to," Aziraphale began, "I should…"

Crowley nosed his way up to Aziraphale's collarbone, and then licked the hollow of his throat.  "Yes?" he asked.  Crowley's hair was always soft, and it tickled.

"I've been here all week," Aziraphale pointed out, and thoughts of centuries, even millennia, returned.  "I ought to at least…ah… _well_ …"

"I understand," Crowley muttered. "It's the holiday season, and you've got _regulars_."

Aziraphale sighed and smoothed Crowley's hair.  "There are a few," he said.

"They're probably ancient," Crowley said, intent upon suffocating himself.  "I imagine that you wouldn't mind if they stopped pestering you.  I could—"

"Don't even think of it," Aziraphale said severely.  "They have grandchildren."

"Yeah, and probably can't even hear them.  _Ow_."

Aziraphale massaged Crowley's scalp, hoping he hadn't pulled _too_ hard.

"I suppose you've got to go back, then," Crowley said gloomily.  Ever since Anathema's charming dinner-party, he had been completely unmanageable.

"For a while," Aziraphale agreed, but at the moment he had begun to feel inexplicably sleepy, and Crowley was doing interesting things with his tongue.  "Er—I love _you_."

Crowley just growled, but whatever he had been doing gentled back to kisses.

*        *        *

For a Friday afternoon, the drive to Soho was quiet.  Crowley wasn't speeding, which struck Aziraphale as bizarre, and perhaps worrisome if he thought about it.  He thought about the music instead, which was Velvet Underground, which was not so bad after all.  He wondered why Crowley had thought he wouldn't like it.  If he tuned out the words, it made for pleasant background noise.  One could only take so much of that Venus fellow, or whatever his name was.  Something to do with planets.

"Pull up here," Aziraphale said, waving his hand at the curb.  "You needn't park."

"Your hospitality's going downhill," Crowley remarked sourly, but he obeyed.

"I told you," Aziraphale said, impatient, "I have work to do.  Don't _you_?"

Crowley gave him a deadpan look.  "In case you haven't noticed, angel, we haven't exactly been flooded with gigs these past few months, have we?"

Aziraphale had to process that for a few seconds.  "There was Boston—"

"That doesn't count; it's long-term."

Aziraphale opened his door and got out.  "Very well, then.  I have _retail_ business, which needs attending.  You're rather distracting, my dear."

Crowley considered this for a moment, clearly trying not to look pleased.

"You ought to come by tomorrow," Aziraphale said, reaching across the seat to touch Crowley's hand.  "I'll have things sorted out by then.  I could use your help, as long as you promise not to scare anybody.  We could go for dinner.  I hear there's a new—"

Crowley leaned over and kissed him.  The demon tasted like a long, lazy morning, and a hasty cup of tea with too much sugar.  His fingers were warm against Aziraphale's cheek. "Why not tonight?" he said.  "I'm sure I could convince the Ritz to deliver."

"Tomorrow," Aziraphale said firmly, and got out of the car.

The shop was dark and chilly with four days' disuse.  Aziraphale pulled down Crowley's latest forgery from the window and crumpled it.  Somebody had slid a note under the door, asking if he was well.  The letterbox was jammed with bills and adverts.

The trouble, Aziraphale decided, wasn't so much that he needed breathing space.  It was that they clearly needed to have a Conversation, and soon.  As to what _kind_ of Conversation, it had been quite some time since either of them had brought up the Arrangement, and it was increasingly more evident that its nature had changed.

In fact, it wasn't so much an Arrangement as it was a Relationship.

Revelations weren't so unsettling once you got used to them.  Aziraphale was relieved to discover that he had already grown accustomed to this one.  He set the mail on the table and went to make tea.  What was unsettling was that Crowley _hadn't_.

Just as Aziraphale was settling down to consider this, the phone rang.

"Look," he said into the receiver, glancing back at his tea wistfully, "Crowley, I'm afraid I've just made some tea, and I'd _really_ appreciate it if—"

"I didna' care what ye'd be appreciatin', ye great southern pansy," said a disgruntled voice on the other end.  "There's somethin' amiss wi' my wumman.  Last time she went abou' sayin' this and that in a voice that's not her ane, _you_ —"

"I would appreciate it," Aziraphale said wearily, "if you would be so kind as to back up and start from the beginning, Mr. Shadwell."

"Aye.  Weel.  Seein' as it's another wumman, I s'pose I might weel be mistakin'…"

"Another _woman_?" Aziraphale repeated.  "I beg your pardon, did you say—"

"Aye!" Shadwell barked.  "My poor Jezebel's been aboot sayin' the likes o' words as can only be witch talk, sorr, but what business witches've got wi' Christmastide, I haen't a clue.  What d'ye reckon I ought to do?"

"Witch talk," Aziraphale murmured, thoughtful.  "Christmas, Mr. Shadwell?"

"Aye, she's sayin' she's got it in her mind tae see her progeny o'er the holidays, or somesuch, shouldn'a be too bloody much to ask when she's been daid—only my wumman ain't daid, ye great pansy!  Can ye fix her?"

"No," Aziraphale said, rubbing his temple. "But I'd like to have a word with her."

"Aye," Shadwell said in a suspicious tone, "tha' might be fer the best.  Mark me, I'll be watchin' yer every move, sorr.  And if ye're out t'beguile a poor, defenseless—"

" _You_ called, Mr. Shadwell."

"Right as rain, sorr.  I'll be watchin'."

"Yes," Aziraphale said, "I don't doubt it.  But it might help if you told me _where_ —"

"Ye've got the bloody cards, haen't ye?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, rummaging through the mess on his desk.  He picked up one of Madame Tracy's postcards.  "Yes, I have.  That still leaves the question of _when_."

"Whene'er you're in the neighborhood," Shadwell said, attempting a tone of nasty sarcasm that only managed the latter.  "As soon as ye can, ye great fool!"

"I'll see what I can do.  Er.  Have a nice evening, and you tell Madame Tracy—"

"Aye, whenever she's next aboot," Shadwell said, crestfallen, and hung up.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, and hastily dialed Crowley.

"Hello?"

"I…" Aziraphale began, and then stopped.  "I've just…"

"I knew you'd come to your senses," Crowley said.

*        *        *

"Kent," said the demon, spreading a map on Aziraphale's table.  "Was that yours?"

"Yours," Aziraphale said, bringing in two cups of cocoa from the kitchen.  "Only part of the fourteenth century that wasn’t boring, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah," Crowley said absently, following a blue line with his fingertip.  "Entertaining lot they had on that pilgrimage.  Geoffrey was impressionable, wasn't he?"

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa and said nothing.  _That_ had been a crippling loss, perhaps more so than some of the Bibles.  He set Crowley's cup on top of Canterbury.

Crowley picked it up, tapping the paper thoughtfully.

"That won't be too difficult to find."

"That sounds familiar," Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley looked up, scowling at him.

"Perhaps _you_ ought to do the driving."

Aziraphale took another sip and waved his free hand helplessly.

"I thought not," Crowley said, and folded the map.  He took his cup to the kitchen, muttering under his breath, "Ashford.  Who lives in _Ashford_?"

"We should probably go tonight," Aziraphale said.  "Mr. Shadwell is very distressed."

"I don't see what's in it for me," Crowley said, returning.  "He's retired, and the woman's a lunatic.  No offense, but she just didn't suit you."

"None taken."

"That would have been awkward, wouldn't it?" Crowley said conversationally, leaning across the table.  "I don't think I would've been inclined to share."

Aziraphale choked.

"Don't be ridiculous!  I wouldn't have stayed—that is, I hadn't been planning—"

"Any time left," Crowley said.  "Convenient, this lack of time."

Aziraphale snatched his cup away, irritated.

"You've had coffee, haven't you?"

"Watching my sugar intake?"

Fleetingly, Aziraphale wanted to hit him.  "Yes."

But Crowley was leaning close, and the easiest thing to do was kiss him.

"We'd best get a move on," he said, pushing up his sunglasses.

"Agreed," Aziraphale sighed, casting a rueful glance about the shop.

Even with a limited knowledge of cartography, Aziraphale was sure that it shouldn't have taken them three hours to find the place, and said so.  Crowley pulled off the lane without slowing and jammed the Bentley to a halt.  Aziraphale dropped the postcard he'd been holding, lurching forward into the dashboard.

"I was merely _suggesting_ you should have brought the map!"

"It's your table," Crowley said testily.  "I'm not used to leaving things there."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Aziraphale sighed, setting the postcard on the seat.  The letterbox a few yards ahead was in need of repair, but the numbers matched the haphazard address crammed below Madame Tracy's signature.  He frowned at it, pondering what it must have looked like new, and then smiled.

Crowley rolled his eyes and got out of the car.  "What next?  Plumbing?"

"Of course not," Aziraphale said, joining him.  "Far too unpleasant."

The lane was covered in pebbles, and they followed it until it curved into a copse of trees.  It was colder than it had been, and the glowing windows ahead shone eerily through the evening dusk.  Crowley trudged beside him, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, chin tucked into his upturned collar.  His teeth chattered.

"My dear," Aziraphale murmured, and took his arm.

Without a word, Crowley tightened his hold, drawing in close.

Aziraphale was glad to find the bungalow in much better shape than the letterbox had been, because otherwise he would have had a lot of explaining to do, and Crowley was snappish enough.  The porch was dimly lit, and the wooden stairs made a hollow sound underfoot.  Crowley marched around muttering under his breath while Aziraphale tentatively tried the brass knocker.  It was shaped like a fan.

"Snow," Crowley muttered, lowering his glasses to watch the drifting progress of something small and glittering in the yellowish light.  "Great. That's all I need."

"Quiet," Aziraphale whispered.  He could hear footsteps.

The door clicked, creaked, and opened approximately two inches.  A pair of pale, shifty eyes looked Aziraphale up and down several times before opening wider.

"State yer business," said Shadwell gruffly.

"I believe you invited me," Aziraphale said politely. "Unless I'm gravely mistaken."

Shadwell grunted and opened the door another inch.  His eyes darted to Crowley, who was watching with still, glowering intent.  "Whae'd ye bring _him_ for?"

"He has a car," Aziraphale said, and judging by the way Crowley choked, he'd have some ruffled feathers to smooth later.  "If you don't mind, it's getting quite cold."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, love," said a bright, familiar voice from inside.  "Let the poor gentleman in, and that nice young man, too!"

"Good evening, Madame Tracy!" Aziraphale called, nodding at Shadwell.

"Hi!" Crowley said, waving, and followed him.

Inside, the place looked as if a bordello and an ancient library had collided.  Aziraphale nodded approvingly (one couldn't have everything), and put his hat on the rack beside the door.  Crowley stood glued to the wall, hands deep in his pockets.  Shadwell was watching him with sharp, suspicious eyes.

Madame Tracy was chattering in the kitchen.

"Just a mo', loves, and we'll have some tea.  What a chill you've taken!  You make yourselves right at home, and Mister S, show the poor dears to the parlor while I…"

"She's quite the talker, isn't she?" Crowley said conversationally.

Shadwell glared and turned on his heel.  "This way," he said, and then softer, under his breath, "ye flash southern bastard, comin' round wi' out…"

"This is going well," Crowley said, giving Aziraphale a push.

"Be quiet," Aziraphale muttered.  Things were, in fact, just the opposite: Madame Tracy sounded quite like herself, and Shadwell hadn't taken kindly to Crowley.

Shadwell showed them to an overstuffed lavender settee, which was covered in cigarette burns and what looked like tea stains.  Aziraphale was glad he'd kept his coat, and Crowley stared at the cushions for what seemed like an eternity before stiffly sitting down.  Shadwell was pacing around the room, apparently without the faintest idea that he was doing so.  He picked up a book here, a bit of newspaper there, without actually succeeding in rearranging anything.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"She's been herself fer a while noo," Shadwell said, turning from the bookcase to look at them.  "E'er since I said ye'd be payin' us a visit, she's been talkin' o' nothin' else."

"Then do you think that your…er, visitor is gone?" Aziraphale asked cautiously.

"I wouldna' let ye southern nancy boys go sittin' about mah house if I was!"

"Of course you would, Mister S," Madame Tracy said, bustling in with a loaded tea tray.  " _And you are a fyne wonne tow talke, yow dafte old foole!_ "

"Fuck," Crowley said, staring at her.

Aziraphale didn't have time to react; his mind promptly went blank.

" _Goode show_ ," said Agnes Nutter, looking straight at him, and then at Crowley.

"Oh, great, it's _her_ ," Crowley groaned, and dived under the embroidered pillows.

"My lady," Aziraphale began, until he realized what she'd said.  "I _beg_ your pardon—"

"That was _hardly_ polite," said Madame Tracy, setting the tea tray down on the low table in front of them.  " _You wolde be harde pressed not tow agree_."

Aziraphale sank down in his seat, envying Crowley his pillows.

"That's not why they're here, Agnes, dear," Madame Tracy said entirely too reasonably, folding her hands in front of her.  "Won't you have some tea?"

"Witch talk," Shadwell muttered under his breath, but he made for the tea tray.

Aziraphale tried to gather his wits, but it was beyond difficult, what with the cleverest witch in the history of the world standing in front of him in a body that he had briefly occupied.  It was disconcerting, and also, Crowley had not come out from under the pillows and he was beginning to feel outnumbered.

" _I shoulde not have beene soe forward_ ," Agnes said, unfolding Madame Tracy's hands.  If anything, the body stood much straighter, more dignified and less nervous.  " _We are Guestes alle in this hous.  I wolde not mynde a byt of Tea_."

"Get it yerself," Shadwell said, retreating to an armchair across the room.  "Witch!"

"Mister S!" Madame Tracy scolded, and then bent down to pick up two of the cups.  "Here you are, some nice—good gracious, are you cold?"

"No," Crowley said, curling up tighter on the sofa.  "'M fine.  Thanks."

"I'll take those," Aziraphale said, and then set them on the edge of the table.  He elbowed Crowley in the backside, having no other option.

Crowley yelped and sat up, hair mussed and glasses askew, looking an absolute fright.

" _I doe not wysh to bring ye Harm_ ," Agnes said reassuringly.  " _Drynke, yowe will be yn better cheere.  Are ye not welle?_ " she asked, concerned.

Crowley picked up his teacup and drank down half.

"He's fine," Aziraphale reassured her, coming to his senses.  "Just a bit of a chill.  Nothing dangerous.  My lady, if you will forgive me, I wasn't—"

" _There ys no neede_ ," Agnes said, and Madame Tracy's hands took the fourth teacup in a firm, steady grasp.  "Isn't she a dear?"

"Um," Crowley said, biting the rim of his cup.

"Well, then, that's settled," Aziraphale said, relieved, and took a bracing sip of his tea.  It was spiced, perhaps Persian.  "Mr. Shadwell was kind enough to inform me that you wished to have a word…er, that is, he wasn't exactly _clear_ on with whom you'd like to have a word, except that you'd mentioned…"

He fell silent, embarrassed.

" _Yowe are a payne in the nekke_ ," Agnes informed Shadwell, who, much to Aziraphale's satisfaction, sank just a bit lower in _his_ seat.  "Sorry. She's under a bit of strain."

"More than a bit, I'd wager," Crowley mumbled, now luridly fascinated.

" _I am in a badde positioun of late. Yt ys not in my Herte to have patience with Tyme.  There ys only soe muche I canne take, knowynge ye have seene my Anathema_."

"She's a lovely girl," Aziraphale said.  "Intelligent.  Refined.  Good taste in—"

"Fish," Crowley volunteered, smirking.

Agnes burst into raucous laughter, spilling her tea down Madame Tracy's front.

" _Goode wonne!_ " she crowed.

"Ouch!" yelped Madame Tracy.

"Awa' wi' ye, spawn o' the De'el!" Shadwell cried, leaping out of his chair.

Amazingly, Crowley darted off the settee in time to restrain him.

Aziraphale offered her a handkerchief, deciding to act as if there wasn't an epic struggle happening on Madame Tracy's immaculately waxed hardwood floor.

" _As I was tellyng ye_ ," Agnes said with a put-upon sigh, accepting the handkerchief, " _I wysh toe see Anathema with myne own Eyes_."

"You hadn't mentioned that," Aziraphale said, trying to keep his hand steady.  He gave up and set down his cup, folding his hands in his lap.  "Although Mr. Shadwell—"

"Ye great southern pansy, help me _oot_ o' this—"

"Aziraphale!  _Aziraphale_!  I don't think I can— _ow!_ —hold—"

" _STOP YT THYS INSTANT, YOW WRECCHED CHERL!_ " Agnes screeched.

"Sorry," Crowley muttered, releasing Shadwell and staggering to his feet.  "Sorry—"

"She didn't mean you, dear," Madame Tracy said, running a suddenly shaky hand through her hair.  "Up you get, there you are." She helped Crowley over to the sofa.

Crowley sank against the pillows, even paler than usual.

"I'll get ye," Shadwell muttered, scrambling to his feet.  "I'll get ye, ye foul—"

Madame Tracy turned around, and Agnes uttered a sequence of strange words.

Shadwell froze completely, a still and perfect imitation of himself.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley's hand.

Crowley had his sunglasses in the other, blinking rapidly at Shadwell.

" _Doe not fear, goode wyf_ ," Agnes said.  " _He schalle not be hurte.  As for ye Two, lysten welle.  The second Booke was my Gift untoe Anathema for her Weddynge, but that foole of a woulde-be Housbonde dyd convince her to burne_ —"

"Book?"  Aziraphale croaked.  "Second?  _Burn_?"

" _Aye_ ," Agnes said, not as troubled as she should have been.

Aziraphale whimpered and squeezed Crowley's hand.

Crowley tried desperately to dislodge him.

" _Havynge little elles toe gyve_ ," Agnes continued, resigned, " _I wolde very muche lyke toe hoste the Festyvitee of Chrystmastyde for_ —"

"Oh," Aziraphale said dismally.  "So that's what it was."

" _He ys not so forgetfull as thatte_ ," Agnes said, casting a spiteful glance at Shadwell over Madame Tracy's shoulder.

"A party," Crowley said unexpectedly.  "You want to throw them a party.  Right?"

" _Yf thatte ys what yow calle yt these Dayes_."

"Yes," Crowley said cheerfully.  "And that sounds like a marvelous idea, Agnes, if I may say so.  Doesn't it?" he asked, nudging Aziraphale harder than was necessary.

"Er," Aziraphale said.

" _Doe I then have youre Worde?_ "  Agnes sounded pleased.

"Absolutely," Crowley said.  "It'll be the best holiday party you ever saw."

" _When schalle it be?_ " Agnes asked.  " _The Dayes are now straunge toe me._ "

"Oh," Crowley said.  "Er.  Well, let's see, it's—Aziraphale, what day is—"

"Christmas Eve falls on a Monday," Aziraphale sighed.  "About two weeks from now."

"Monday," Crowley said smoothly.  "Two weeks from now."

Madame Tracy's mouth quirked into an absent smile.  " _Very goode.  I schalle see yow then.  Though ye sholde take greatere Cayre yf_ —"  Madame Tracy shook herself, shivering as if she'd come in from the cold. "A party!  Isn't it wonderful? Just think how nice this place will look. Newt and his young lady are simply the _sweetest_ …"

Aziraphale looked desperately in Shadwell's direction, only to find him snoring in a peaceful heap on the armchair.  Crowley shrugged and finished his tea.

"Poor love," said Madame Tracy, and went over to pat his hand.  "Visitors excite him more than he'd ever admit, you know."

"I hadn't noticed," Crowley said.

Aziraphale decided that, at the moment, tea wasn't strong enough by half.

*        *        *

"It wasn't funny," Aziraphale said, unwinding his scarf and flinging it across the counter.  "To a _woman_ ," he said, horrified.  "Who _understood_ it!"

"Who _got_ it," Crowley corrected him, shrugging out of his coat.  "And enjoyed it. Your people don't know how to tell jokes.  She's probably bored out of her skull."

"If she had one," Aziraphale muttered, snatching away Crowley's coat.  "Still, I'm mortified for both of us.  I intend to apologize next time we see her."

"You do that," Crowley said softly, sidling up behind him.

"I still have work to do," Aziraphale said hesitantly, watching Crowley's arm snake around his waist.  "Quite a lot of it, in fact.  I've lost another day."

"All this talk of time," Crowley informed him, "is tiresome."

"And you," Aziraphale reminded him, turning around, "have a party to plan."

"No, I don't," Crowley said, looking pleased with himself.  "Madame Tracy does."

"You're going to help her, or I _will_ send you home again," Aziraphale warned.

For an instant, Crowley looked terrified, but it quickly faded to annoyance.  "Fine."

"It's only proper," Aziraphale said, setting his palms against Crowley's cheeks.  His skin was chilled, flushed pink from the freezing wind.  It reminded him of other things.

"Yesss," Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale didn't care which question he was answering, the spoken or the implied.  He closed his eyes as they kissed.

Aziraphale splayed his fingers, slipping them into Crowley's hair.

Upstairs, there was very little talk.  The rest of Crowley was as cold as his cheeks, and he melted faster than ice under Aziraphale's careful touch.  A pair of faint bruises graced his left side, irregular streaks of deep blue buried just beneath the white.  Crowley sucked in his breath with a soft hiss of pain that turned to laughter as Aziraphale ran his fingers over the marks.  They promptly faded.

"There's more strength in that wretched man than I would have guessed."

"Nonono," Crowley said, pressing his cold fingers to Aziraphale's lips.  "You've got it all wrong.  You heard the lady.  He's a _cherl_."

"Yes," Aziraphale said, gathering Crowley to him with a relieved sigh.

*        *        *

For the first time in a very long while, Aziraphale opened the shop.

Crowley complained about the kitchen being too small, but he somehow managed to assemble something resembling a proper English breakfast from what was in the refrigerator.  He seized Aziraphale's newspaper and set a plate down in front of him.

"How long has that stuff been in there, just out of curiosity?"

"I have no idea," Aziraphale admitted, and took a bite of sausage.

Crowley rolled his eyes, and then went to get himself some tea.

Aziraphale wasn't sure whether it was out of earnest contrition or merely the fear of being sent away, but Crowley was perfectly helpful (if a bit surprised) when customers started to appear about half an hour later.  One of them, Mr. Davidson, an avid collector himself, even had a grandchild in tow.  Aziraphale had never seen the boy.

"How old are you?" Crowley asked.  His new talent for unexpected conversation was beginning to unnerve Aziraphale.  "Come on, don't be shy."

"Nine," Benjamin said. He grinned, revealing missing teeth.  "And a half."

"Is that so!" Crowley said, smiling benignly, reaching for the nearest shelf.  "In which case, I think you're _definitely_ old enough for—"

Aziraphale caught his hand just in time, smashing it against the book spines.

"This is more like it, dear boy," he said, reaching for a book several shelves lower.  "You'll have to excuse Mr. Crowley.  He doesn't quite know what's where, you see."

The boy giggled at Crowley, who was rubbing his hand and hissing under his breath.

Aziraphale turned to Mr. Davidson.  "Please, take it," he said. "Early Christmas gift."

"It was only a comic book!" Crowley shouted once they'd gone, fleeing Aziraphale.

"It was a _graphic novel_ , unless I've quite forgot your lecture on modern publications!"

"Your sense of humor," Crowley panted, ducking under the table and grabbing a chair by the legs, "is severely lacking.  Haven't I taught you _anything_ by now?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, grabbing the back of the chair and yanking until he heard Crowley yelp.  "How to play, what's the term—dirty?"

Crowley yanked the chair away, and then reached out and tripped him, grinning.

"Ow," Aziraphale said, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair and square," Crowley said, helping him to his feet.

"Hardly," Aziraphale said, and found that he couldn't stop smiling.

*        *        *

"Please," Crowley said, only he wasn't quite begging, and nowhere near desperate enough.  "I don't know anybody else who could do it.  I can't very well ask Anathema, because this is supposed to be a surprise."

"Why not Madame Tracy, seeing as she's your hostess?" Aziraphale asked, wrapping a book order in brown paper.  He added a green and red bow to brighten things up.

"Are you kidding?" Crowley asked, fairly hanging over the counter now.  "Her handwriting's worse than that horror she lives with!"

"Agnes?" Aziraphale asked, appalled that Crowley would suggest such a thing.

"No, you idiot.  I meant Shadwell.  Although we did try Agnes, and I've never seen worse spelling in my life.  Existence.  Whatever.  Don't look at me like that."

"Can't you just have them printed?"  Aziraphale sensed that he was getting very, very close.  He took one scissor-blade to the stray ribbon tendrils, curling them neatly.

Crowley made a strangled noise and stretched over far enough to tug on his sleeve.

"Oh, if I _must_ ," Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley was over the counter in no time.  Being kissed within an inch of his immortality as the shop bell rang was not, however, what he had intended.  _The best laid plans_ , he thought, and tapped Crowley's arm.

Crowley pulled away and blinked at him, disappointed, and then caught his drift.

"Gosh," he said, turning to face the door, smiling sheepishly as he ran a hand through his hair.  "Sorry.  _Sorry_.  I mean, we didn't…hear…"

Aziraphale thought the young woman looked familiar.

"I'm very happy for you," she said quickly, darting to one side of shelves.  "Really very happy!"  Embarrassed, she flashed them a nervous smile and started looking at the books, throwing them a surreptitious glance every few titles.

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and thought about calligraphy.

*        *        *

Crowley sat back on the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table, shuffling the invitations.  He frowned after he'd got through three of them, glancing at Aziraphale.

"Are you mad?" he asked.  "Adam and his _family_?  That girl, the other—"

"They were on the list you gave me," Aziraphale said, shrugging.  "Didn't you read it?"

"Not really," Crowley said, tossing the invitations down on the table.  "Needless to say, they won't all be showing up."

"And why not?" Aziraphale asked, mildly indignant.  "I can see to it that they're entertained, you know full well—"

"How that went over last time, which was _not_ so well," Crowley said with a grimace.

"Right," Aziraphale muttered, staring at the television.  He hated the news these days, but Crowley had a sick fascination with the BBC and its insistent accuracy.

"Fine," Crowley said.  "Adam and the others.  No parents.  The last thing we need—"

"How on earth are four children supposed to reach Ashford unattended?"

"Newt has a car," Crowley said reasonably, slouching down till he could lean against Aziraphale's shoulder.  "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Aziraphale choked.  "You're sure _I'll_ —?"

"Relax, angel," Crowley murmured, trailing his fingers carelessly up and down Aziraphale's chest.  "I've got it all worked out.  You can't take a joke, can you?"

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong glance, but merely bit his tongue.

*        *        *

"This place," Crowley announced, "is abysmal.  You call these decorations?"

Aziraphale looked up from his accounting and frowned.  "Possibly," he said.  He had thought that cut-out snowflakes had a quaint sort of look about them.

Crowley pulled one down from the window and studied it.

"Tacky," he said.  "You have absolutely no taste.  I suppose you did this yourself."

Aziraphale set down his pencil, about to rise.  "As a matter of fact, I—"

Crowley hastily put the snowflake back, smoothing it as best he could.  "All right, all right, you can keep your snowflakes.  But can't you just have a _little_ class for once?"

"Such as?" Aziraphale prompted.  He couldn't wait to hear this one.

Crowley came over to the counter, smiling crazily.  That never boded well.

"This," Crowley said, drawing something out of his pocket.

Aziraphale took the shrink-wrapped bit of greenery and sighed.

"These berries are _fake_."

"You can hardly expect complete authenticity," Crowley explained.  "They don't keep.  That's a real sprig, though.  They dry 'em.  Clever."

"No, it's supersti— _mmm_ ," Aziraphale said as his mouth collided with Crowley's.

Crowley tapped him on the head with the mistletoe.  "It's for Madame Tracy, you see.  She requested it.  No party this time of year should be without it.  Terrible waste."

"Or just plain terrible," Aziraphale said, and let himself be tempted to dinner.

*        *        *

"…and she remeb—remem—bereb— _knew_ the punchline," Crowley insisted, slamming his bottle down on the table.  It made Aziraphale's head throb.  "Just like that."

Aziraphale pondered the state of his bottle, and decided it was, in fact, empty.  This came as a vast surprise and had nothing to do with what Crowley had just said.  

"Glass," Aziraphale muttered, as it was what he happened to be looking at.

"You're drunk," Crowley said, taking it from him.  "Not even listening, are you?"

Aziraphale blinked at him, and then winced.

"No," he admitted.  The room was swimming.

"'S a waste of good scotch," Crowley said, which didn't make any sense, and he must have realized that, because he started waving his hands as if to erase it.

"Something about punchlines?" Aziraphale supplied hopefully.

"Ah!" Crowley exclaimed.  "Yes.  Punchlines. She got 'em all, I tell you."

"She?"

"Agnes. Ssstupid ghost.  Hates mistletoe."

"Really," said Aziraphale, awed.

"Apparently this…thing," Crowley said, leaning forward and trying very hard to look composed, "you know, fire and nails and boom, no more village, and then—" Crowley screwed up his face, searching "—guy with a funny name.  'S not important."

"It probably is," Aziraphale said, a little of what was implied sinking in.

"Aziraphale?"

"Hmmm."

"'S in two bloody days.  Count.  Two.  One—"

"The party is in two days," Aziraphale said.  "Yes, I understand that."  He frowned, and the room steadied itself.  "What about the children?"

Crowley blinked at him a few times, stupefied.

Aziraphale patted his hand.  "I think you had better sober up."

Crowley winced, and then flopped face-first onto the table.  "Yeah."

"The children," Aziraphale said, picking up where he'd left off.  "Are they coming?"

"Adam and Pepper," he said, rubbing his temples.  "That's what Newt says, anyway.  Don't know about the others.  Can't win 'em all, right?"

"Well, if you really wanted to, but—"

"Never mind," Crowley said, patting Aziraphale's hand.  "Don't answer that."

*        *        *

Aziraphale was drifting about in that pleasant, semi-conscious state when Crowley decided that he couldn't sleep.  He was warm, too comfortable to move, but Crowley seemed perfectly content to do all the moving.  That big bed really was marvelous.

"Angel," Crowley whispered, still for a moment.  He kissed Aziraphale's neck and pressed his palm to his chest, as if seeking, listening.  "Are you—"

"Barely," Aziraphale murmured, running his fingers up Crowley's spine without too much effort.  It usually made Crowley shiver; tonight was no different.

Crowley sighed, resting his forehead against the pillow.  Aziraphale felt his breath against his cheek.  He turned his head a little, hoping Crowley would get the point.

Not long after, he drifted off on Aziraphale's shoulder, half sprawled on top of him.  Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley and thought of only this, only darkness.

In the street, a passing car's radio sent up the briefest strains of _Silent Night_.

*        *        *

"It's a travesty," moaned Aziraphale, turning away.  "How can you _honestly_ —"

"I can't," Crowley said, "but would you trust me on this one?"

Aziraphale tugged at his jacket in disgust.  "No!  It's—it's—well, what _is_ it?"

"Italian," Crowley said, smoothing Aziraphale's lapels.  "You'll get used to it."

"I suppose I'll get used to the blue shirt, too?"

"Shut up," Crowley said, dragging him away before he could try to take the outfit off.  "You're more adaptable than you'd think."

Aziraphale tried to think of a clever response, but couldn't.  He found himself bundled up and in the passenger seat of the Bentley before he realized he hadn't protested.

Crowley rubbed his hands together to warm them, and then started up the car.

"Wait," Aziraphale said desperately.  "We forgot—"

Crowley snapped his fingers.  "Thanks."

Aziraphale sat back and stared out the window, listening to the rattle of gift-wrapped boxes in the back.  They would never survive the ride intact.  Well, unless…

An hour later, mostly rattle-free, the Bentley crawled up a certain snow-dusted lane in a certain isolated part of Ashford.  Aziraphale thought that the trees looked beautiful, and Crowley said that he was in no position to comment, being piled with boxes.

"Oh, give them here," Aziraphale said, holding out his arms.

"Forget it," Crowley said, and almost tripped on the stairs.

Almost instantly, the door swung open, revealing an unfortunately attired Madame Tracy.  Aziraphale kissed her hand and told her that she looked delightful, but in reality he was quite relieved that he wouldn't be the worst dressed of the evening.

"Hullo," Crowley said, trying to collect the scattered boxes.

"Mister S," Madame Tracy called, "come along and help Mr. Crowley with—"

"Wow," said a distinctly young, female voice.  Pepper poked her head outside, eyes round as saucers.  "I think I remember you guys."

Crowley waved feebly, as he had just gotten the boxes gathered up again, and, feeling a bit of remorse, Aziraphale took a few of them, smiling at the girl on his way inside.

" _Ye're most welcome_ ," Agnes whispered in his ear, and Madame Tracy stepped back again, beaming.  "Let's put those with the coats, shall we?"

"Certainly, but oughtn't you be telling Crowley?"

" _In goode tyme_ ," Agnes said under Madame Tracy's breath, and wandered off.

The place had less the look of a bordello now and more the look of a disco.  A disco with a lot of books, beads, and veils.  Aziraphale wondered where Crowley had found such hideous decorations.  Pepper, on the other hand, seemed thrilled with them.

"We put them up at home, too," she said.  "D'you wanna see the tree?"

Aziraphale suddenly understood why Crowley had gaped at him.  He supposed the demon would have looked like that even if he had been sober.

In the parlor, Shadwell and Newt were talking as if they'd never parted. Or, rather, Shadwell was talking and Newt was listening, which meant that their entrance went unnoticed—but not by the figures seated on the floor in front of the tree.

Adam got up and ran to meet them, grinning ear to ear.  "Anathema's getting me a subscription," he said happily.  "Now you can have all the old ones, Pepper."

"I don't want your stupid magazines," she said.  "I read 'em already."

"Then Newt can cut them up," he said reasonably.  "Hullo.  This is really, really great.  Madame Tracy makes better hot cocoa than my mum."

"And talks kind of funny," added Pepper.

"I wondered if I'd be seeing you," Anathema said.  She had followed Adam.

"Of course, dear girl," said Aziraphale, and found his arms full of her slender, insistent strength.  She smiled as if she'd found something long-lost.

"Wonderful," said Crowley, eyeing Newt and Shadwell warily.  "Where's the alcohol?"

"Champagne in the kitchen," Anathema volunteered.

"I like the way you think."  Crowley trailed after her.

"It's not that bad," Adam said.

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the kitchen door.  "Er?"

"The outfit," Adam said.  "It's not terrible.  'S just not _you_ , that's all."

"I see," Aziraphale said, frowning at him, uncertain of how to respond.

The boy just smiled.  "I've got to tell you about my subscription."

*        *        *

"What'n the world is _that_?" Newt slurred over his glass of champagne, fascinated.

"Tools o' the De'el," Shadwell muttered into his hot toddy.

" _Yowe are soe thikke_ —ah, I mean," said Madame Tracy, "that it's kind of like building blocks.  Isn't it, dear?" she asked Adam, patting his head a little shakily.

She'd had enough champagne for three people, possibly four.

"Yeah, kind of," Adam said, intent upon the Lego diagram.  He'd managed to assemble most of it in less time than Aziraphale had thought was humanly possible.

It was a complicated design.

Crowley sat beside him on the settee, swilling his wine and quietly despairing.

"It's not that bad," Aziraphale reassured him, reaching over to pat his knee.

Downing the rest of his glass, Crowley caught his hand and kept it there.

*        *        *

"He _understands_ things," Anathema was saying, wiping her somewhat watery eyes with the back of her hand.  "I'm not sure how, but he does.  So I thought it would be a good idea.  He keeps running off with my new issues, so it only makes sense…"

"Of course," Aziraphale said.  "He's tried to talk me into carrying it at the shop."

"Oh, your _shop_ ," Anathema said, briefly squeezing Aziraphale's arm.  "I've got to see that sometime.  I'm so lazy.  Newt, we've got to—"

"Lightweight, isn't she?" Crowley muttered under his breath.

Aziraphale nodded vaguely, still smiling at Anathema.

On the floor, Adam and Pepper were engaging their respective Lego creations in an intense, block-scattering battle.  The other boxes lay gutted and scattered about the tree, such practicalities as books and brand-new mittens forgotten.

Across the room, Madame Tracy was carrying on an animated conversation with herself, but no one else seemed to notice.  Every once in a while, Anathema would turn her head, but not for long, and she'd go back to listening to Aziraphale.

Shadwell was arguing with Newt about books that the poor boy had never read; for being drunk, he was holding his own quite well.  He even told Shadwell a few things about the _Malleus Maleficarum_ that neither of them had even known, such as the fact that it was a useless bundle of paper and binding, and both of them seemed to agree.

Meanwhile, Crowley snaked an arm around Aziraphale.

"It's in the kitchen," he whispered.

"I know," Aziraphale said. "No more for me. I'm not going to get drunk in front of—"

"That's not what I meant."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, and realized that Anathema was still talking to him.

"…at about his age, only I didn't exactly grasp—am I babbling?  Sometimes I think—"

"My dear," he said politely, bending to touch her shoulder even as he watched Crowley rise and saunter purposefully into the kitchen, "would you excuse me for a moment?"

Anathema leaned back against the arm of the sofa, eyes closed, content.

"I don't know about you," Crowley said, carrying some used glasses away from the table and over to the sink, "but I think it's been a smashing success."

"If you mean by which that most of the attendees are smashed."

"Of course not," Crowley said, setting the glasses down.  "That's icing on the cake."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  "I don't see what this has to do with—"

"It doesn't," Crowley said, pressing him up against the cupboards with a kiss.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, glancing dizzily upwards several minutes later.

"Rather a strange place for it, but we ran out of tape," Crowley said.  "So I shut it in there."  He opened the cupboard door with a neat flick of his fingers, and the mistletoe fell on Aziraphale's head.

"I wish you'd stop that," Aziraphale said.

"Stop what?" Crowley asked.

"Hitting me on the head with…er, things."

"What, like clues?"

Aziraphale blinked at him once, twice, and couldn't find his breath.

Crowley gave him a look that wasn't sarcastic, or hateful, or even pretending to be either one.  He realized for the first time all evening that the demon's glasses had gone off somewhere, and that nobody else seemed to notice.  Crowley looked tired.

"You could say something," he sighed.  "I might die of waiting."

"I thought I already did," Aziraphale said softly.  "So did you."

"Seeing as I didn't mean it at the time," Crowley said, "that put a damper on things."

"Liar," Aziraphale said.

Crowley smiled a beautiful, devastated smile.  "Not always."

"No," Aziraphale said, tracing the line of his cheek.  "Of course not.  I meant—"

"You did."

"I did."

And, from then on, they _would_.


End file.
